I’m on the second floor of what appears to be an old elementary or high school. An old fashioned, yellow pine teacher’s desk is in the front of the classroom, covered with the standard teacher paraphanalia – blotter, pencil holder, a stack of papers waiting to be graded. About 25 people are in the room, mostly milling about or sitting on a fuzzy blue rug just inside the doorway, talking and waiting. My boss is standing off to the side, looking at me expectantly. I see a blonde young man standing near the doorway. His phone rings with an obnoxiously loud rock song.
Suddenly, I realize that I am there to teach a class. I also realize that although I was responsible for developing the original material, it has been updated several times, and I haven’t reviewed it. There are no computers on the desks, which I now realize are the college-style arm desks, and there are no manuals laid out and ready to go. Suddenly, I notice that although I remember standing at my dressing table perfecting my hair and makeup, I am standing in the room in my pajamas – a short, tie-dyed frock that could pass for a summer dress. I have no idea if I have any shoes on, and I’m not in the mood to look. My boss is still waiting, but doesn’t seem to notice that I’m not properly dressed. The young man’s phone rings again, but he seems disinclined to answer it, so the loud rock song plays on.
I’m in the back of the classroom with one of my students. She has been a training coordinator for several years, and could probably teach the class in her sleep. I know this, yet I also know that I am supposed to teach her the materials. We are methodically rummaging through the materials closet. The closet is larger than the classroom, brightly lit, with high shelves filled to the ceiling with training materials. This room is well organized, but try as we might, we cannot find any training manuals for the class I am supposed to teach.
Back in the classroom, some of the students have taken their seats. Somehow both computer and training manuals have materialized, but the room is still abuzz with chatting. As I stand in the front of the room preparing to begin the class, still in my pajamas, wondering if I can run home at break to change my clothes, the young man’s phone rings one more time.
“OUT!” I shout at him, pointing, straight-armed, at the door. He looks at me, bewildered, and shrugs, tossing his blonde locks at me as he exits the room. He is followed by his yellow Labrador.