COLUMN: Sucking up after sleeping in
I did the unthinkable earlier this week — the very carnal act that has despaired every soul-seeking youth from T.J. Detweiler to Mike Seaver from “Growing Pains.” It may seem harmless upon simple observation, but believe me, when it happens to you you’ll feel the sting, the angst and the widespread personal panic just as I did, when I made the befalling mistake that bears no remedy. You may judge, you may scorn — few may give founding support — but no matter what, there is no point in hiding. For the good of my conscience I must come clean.
I, Steve Schwartzman, slept through class.
Though I’ve run through the scenario a million times, I can’t seem to put my finger on how it all went down. One moment it was Sunday evening, and I was enjoying an NBA on NBC game from 1998. No morning is complete without hearing Bob Costas’ voice. I’m sure you’d hear voices like his in heaven if angels were financial consultants.
The next thing I knew, I was sprawled across my mattress in khaki shorts, arm draped toward the floor and staring at my clock like it flashed, sparkled and spawned into the Fairly Odd Parents.
Now I’m groggy, fairly unhygienic and officially in a panic-laden dash to save what is left of my statistics lecture.
Suddenly, I feel much like Harrison Ford in “The Fugitive” — determined, behind a step, slightly irritated, because that’s my job, I mean, I’m Harrison Ford for goodness’ sake — and not sure what in the world I’m doing. All I know is I must find some dynamic way to save face and prepare, at best, to survive what is most definitely the mother of all collegiate roadblocks — finding an excuse for being tardy.
First things first: get the attire in check. It’s a tight balance when approaching the professor after a sleep crisis — one wants to appear like they are ailing, yet still in control. In this case, and this weather — always a determining factor — protocol is basic: used T-shirt, jeans, flip-flops and a single swipe of deodorant. Throw in a stick of gum and on to the sector of looks that carries by far the biggest clout — the hair. It’s important that hair follow the age-old formula of well groomed, minus one specific flaw. This shows ability to be seen presentable in a time of hazard while movable enough to not have time to cover every base. Hats won’t cut it in this situation — one who simply dons a hat comes off careless, using the literal example of a “cover up.”
I’m lucky, as my gel from the night before has apparently remained in main form. I take a few dabs at the back of my head with a wet comb, and now to perfect the next stage in surviving a sleep-in: the walk.
Walking into the classroom can make or break the vitality of the situation right off the bat, especially in the event of a test or due project. The goal is to appear tired but not injured, opening the door to numerous levels of ailment as to have one simply assume things aren’t hunky dory. Almost an odd kind of “whiny walk.” This is where watching endless clips of Dave Schwimmer — Ross from “Friends” — finally pays off.
The keys here are soft steps, breathing from the stomach and blatant blinking, giving a metro John Wayne approach without all the ever-present boot clanking.
Now, and this is very vital, remember not to rush things. Walking directly to a seat may show too much depth of focus, it’s important to stand in the back of the class and do what I call the “teeter.” Stand up straight, lock the knees and peer over to the seats as if you’re trying to find your true love from across the Berlin Wall. Once a seat is a found, be sure to take two steps forward and stop — hesitating is a must if you want to look gassed — then, and only then, proceed to your seat. Safe and sound.
Now you’ve obviously made it through the end of the lecture, doing occasional head-in-hands and deep-breath routines to show exhaustion, while sending concerned text messages. This is good, you always want to look like something else of merit is at stake.
Now we’ve come to the final stage, psyching out the professor. You’re goal is simple: apologize, ask for some course material and you’re out the door. In this case it was a test review, so I’ll need all the help I can get. I have no choice but to pull a no-huddle and go for the performance of my life.
For starters, say something simply odd. If I am ever able to sell this, I must come off delirious. I start talking about “Goof Troop” and abruptly shake my head, look up and say, “Sorry, I zoned out.” The professor nods and says, “You’re fine, go on.” Brilliant. Now I’m in.
I tell him I’ve been having migraines — flawless, there’s no background check for those puppies — and that I feel bad, because I really needed this review, followed by a sorry sack of rhetoric that truly bears no meaning other than either “Look how unfortunate my life is,” or “If I beg really hard you’ll buy me a pair of the L.A. Lights I always wanted.”
Maybe it was my words, sunken eyes — yes, you can practice those — or my not-so-raspy but not-so-belting soft, sickly voice, but I walked out of that pressure chamber with a study guide, practice test, a quick word of “here’s what you really need to know” and an office appointment to cover anything else. In like a sloth, out like a bandit. Sometimes it pays to forget to set the alarm.
— Steve Schwartzman is a junior majoring in marketing and minoring in speech communication. His column runs every Wednesday. He loves sports, comedy and creative writing. He encourages comments be sent to his email steve.schwartzman@aggiemail.usu.edu, or you can find him on Facebook.