WISHFUL THINKING DESK

It's that time of year again.  Time to set up my classroom.  Finally I can haul all the crap out of my den and to school: files, materials, toys, books, and various other stuff that has been accumulating since the end of June.

Just when I think I'll get something accomplished, the janitorial staff informs me that I cannot have anything on top of my classroom storage closet because it is illegal to have anything within eighteen inches of the ceiling.  Of course, I have old text books and leftover curriculum from another teacher all stored up there. Apparently, I am shuffling old crap around today rather than dealing with the booty I brought in from home.

I've been at school for less than three minutes of this new school year, and already I am falling behind.  How is this even possible?

I tackle the top of the closet first.  Much as I hate to have more useless crap around my room, I'm going to have to find homes for thirty out-dated grammar/writing text books and twenty giant dictionaries (I haul ten more down to the teachers' room with an adoption sign).  I decide to shove them all onto a rolling cart and use the top of the cart for my hall passes and pencil sharpener.

There.  Books out of sight; books out of mind.

I spread the rest of the crap out across the top of the closet.  Oh, well.  It's probably fourteen inches from the ceiling, not eighteen.  Maybe it is eighteen - I don't know because I'm too short to measure it, and I'm balancing in my bare feet on a rickety student desk.

The rest of my limited time at school, I rearrange desks and fix a bookshelf that was accidentally wrecked during summer cleaning.  I put one desk near plugs to use as a charging station for ChromeBooks.  Coincidentally, this desk faces outside, like the Wishful Thinking Desk: Anyone who sits there wishes he or she were outside instead of being stuck inside listening to me (myself included).

As I lock my door to leave, pulling it shut behind me until it clicks, I look down the hallway.  Standing ten feet away is the head maintenance guy for the entire district along with the fire marshal and his assistant.  The fire marshal is carrying a clipboard.  I know why he is here; he is here to measure the top of my closet and issue citations for my junky collection of leftover shit. I apologize but leave the locked door behind me, forcing the maintenance staff to open everything back up, then I slip out of the building before anyone can tell me to do more work on the closet top.

The next day I return for two quick hours.  I run into the maintenance guy again, so I ask him, "How did our fire inspection go?"  He tells me that we passed with flying colors.  Good.  Maybe next time I can get some of my own work done instead of sorting and manipulating extra stuff that I will never, ever use again in my lifetime.

Looks like a few hours into my year, I'm the one needing the Wishful Thinking Desk... already.