More School Readiness

Yesterday, I became a real person at Big City University. I successfully used my parking tag to get into the faculty deck, I got my computer and successfully checked email, I found the key to my office, and I turned in some reading to the Reserves Desk at the Library. Ain't no stopping me now.

This morning, I continued my streak of good fortune by figuring out the university's WebCT system, on my home computer no less. Really ain't no stopping me now. I successfully posted my syllabus, thus saving my time, energy, and a bunch of trees. Unlike other faculty members, I will not be queuing up at the department copier and then shlepping across campus with hundreds of copies of my syllabus so students can lose them within the first week. Nope. Today's students are computer savvy. If I post it, they will come - or they will fail.

With that task done, I turned my attention to my wardrobe. Anxiety manifests itself in mysterious ways. I felt compelled to conduct a more thorough survey of my closet to verify that I do, in fact, have clothes that I can wear to work. I felt further compelled to confirm this hypothesis through empirical study. I am a researcher (and a dork), after all. Here's what I learned:

Yes, I do have appropriate teaching attire. And, because this is the South, I really only need clothes for three seasons. As I surveyed my choices, I judged that overall, my wardrobe is not totally frumpy, but could be much cuter. I've seen much more stylish options in all the stores. I've tried them on and been happy with the results. However, because I'm quickly developing old lady feet, I'm forced to wear the following, or some variation on this theme:

Totally frumpy? I don't think so. The pinnacle of shoe fashion? Decidedly not. It's not that I don't own cute shoes. In fact, I do. Lots of them. Shoes that scream, "Your professor is not a dork." Shoes that magically lengthen and slim my short little legs. Shoes that show off my teeny little feet. But, alas, these are also the shoes with a "standing time" limit. The same shoes that make my feet cry if I stand in them all day. It's really hard to look cute and sylish when every step is a new experience in pain. Gone are the days when I'm willing to put up with utter agony on the off chance that someone might notice how well my little torture devices coordinate with my sylish outfit. Maybe if someone was paying me thousands of dollars to wear their shoes, I'd reconsider. Since no one is stepping forward (pun intended), I'll march forward in my comfort shoes.

Who knows, maybe one day, I'll just give up entirely and go with these:

Or these:

(As an aside: I'm pretty sure my neighbors think I'm insane. Imagine looking across your apartment complex and seeing a woman arranging all of her clothes on her bed, then grabbing her camera and snapping pictures. I crouched down to snap pictures of the shoes, otherwise they'd think I was really nuts.)