Profile Revision

(Still a work in progress, but I think it's a bit closer to where it should be... I may edit it one more time before class, but here's what I've got thus far.)

As I steal a seat in my sister’s classroom, I am suddenly struck by how big an age gap there is between the two of us. Jen is technically old enough to be my mother; and yet as her students for the semester began to file in to the classroom, none of them seemed to realize that she was going to be their professor for the next fifteen weeks. She may as well be a TA, albeit one in dated, almost frumpy, clothes.

The age difference between us doesn’t occur to me often, unless someone else exclaims, wow, she’s sixteen years older than you? I muse over that as the other kids my age start to settle in to their newly claimed territory, watching as they fiddle with pencils, text friends on their cell phones, and turn in their seats to chat to their neighbors. I overhear one of them mention Jen’s score on RateMyProfessor.com and fight the urge to laugh. I can’t help but smirk, however, as my sister clears her throat and starts the class. It’s too bad I’m in the front row, because I’m sure that the students’ expressions are noteworthy.

Even as she placidly takes over the class, I can already hear her after the class: at least they don’t think I’m an undergrad anymore.

Jen was blessed with a baby-face that, thus far, has only revealed an absolute minimum of wrinkles. But it’s funny how people tend to want what they don’t have, even when others would kill for that same thing. My sister’s of the firm belief that you should look exactly the age you are, and goes to war over her own looks every day to try and achieve that goal.

The students are silent as Jen passes out the syllabus. I take one, briefly entertaining the idea of being an undercover agent of some kind, and glance over it. Immediately I feel a rush of relief that my own days of taking gen ed classes are gone, even though the topic of this class—Intro. To Theater History—sounds vaguely interesting.

Jen’s been into theater for longer than anyone can tell, including her own parents. She took part in several plays in public school, from a casual walk-on in a Charlie Brown skit to a full-blown tour around the state in Nunsense when she was in high school. Dad likes to tell the story of my sister’s getting into college, and how after a semester of politely obeying her mother’s wishes to study business, she just as politely switched to drama, and hasn’t looked back since.

With her experience acting comes endless knowledge of makeup and costume design. Years of dressing up, down, backwards and diagonally have taught her how to look the part in any given situation, from the Lady Olivia in Twelfth Night to a nervous-ecstatic bride in her own wedding. The only time she can’t seem to get her act together is when she wants to the most: dressing herself for work. Two decades of mastering foundation, blush, and matching colors completely escapes her to the point where she is left looking not like a collected forty-year-old, but instead a thirty-year-old who might have stumbled into her mother’s wardrobe. Granted, the clothes would probably look classy on a lady in her fifties; on her, however…

I admit to myself as I watch the class that it’s funny I never think about our age differences much, except when we’re introducing each other. But then, maybe it’s the source of her chagrin that keeps me from thinking about her as older. After all, she’s been older than me from the start, so in my mind, nothing has changed. She’s still the ageless big sister I used to wave at during her performances amusing (and annoying) the theater at large with my declarations of that’s my sister!

A student asks a question, and Jen’s eyebrows lift with a silent question in turn as she listens to him. Then, she tells him that yes, it would be best if you showed up to class as often as possible. Then, with that twinkle in her eye, she adds in the same mild-mannered tone, I’d also recommend doing the homework, too. It should be pretty painless for both of us that way.

The student laughs a little, because he can’t tell if she’s joking or not. When she offers him a brief, close-lipped smile and then resumes discussing the syllabus, I turn my head in time to see him glancing at one of his friends as if to ask is she serious?

I smile to myself and pretend to return my attention to my sister’s words, but I’m far more interested in watching her move. Before class had started, I’d asked her if she ever felt nervous about beginning each new semester. When she’d agreed, I’d half-joked that maybe she should treat the first class as yet another play. However, as she moves to write her name and office hours on the board, I can’t help but wonder if she doesn’t already do that.

Her movements have always been deliberate, as though she calculated every flick of the wrist and the light squeak of the marker against the whiteboard. She doesn’t stumble or bump into anything as she paces back and forth along the front of the classroom, either; she takes a couple of steps, then stops for a beat before resuming.

Jen’s speech is as deliberate and thought-out as her moves. Her response to the student, her discussions with me, all begin and end with pauses as she considers the best angle to tackle something. Mom says Jen’s done that since she was a kid; rather than admit how awful dinner tasted, she would instead tactfully inform her parents that the peas made her knife smell funny and that she’d very much prefer if she could have, say, carrots instead.

That’s not to say that Jen is slow by any means, or that she’s low-energy. Really, each movement seems to be restraining energy more than summoning it; she only appears to release unexpected bursts of it if she laughs or is thrown out of her calculated behavior by an unexpected question.

And yet, with all of this careful thought put into her action, she still can’t manage to look like a thirty-nine year-old professor.

The syllabus was the only activity on today’s schedule, so when they finish reading it, Jen excuses the class. The room erupts in a series of sounds, from chairs scraping away from desks to the buzz of cell phones and the zip of closing backpacks. In less than a minute, the room is empty save for the two of us.

So, were you bored? Jen asks me, as she hunts for a whiteboard eraser.

I rise to help her look, shaking my head. Nah; I did kind of space out though.

That’s fine; I’m sure my actual students were, too. Her lips curve into a faint smile.

Maybe. You know, they looked kinda confused about you being up in front.

She blows a bit of hair out of her face, then sighs. At least no one asked me if I was the TA this time. But I really thought I’d dressed right this time.

I look over her stuffy cardigan, and offer a noncommittal Yeah; maybe you should just tell them how old you are upfront, or wear a nametag with your age on it or something.

Instead of taking my teasing for what it is, Jen decides to take it seriously for a moment, tilting her head as she pulls a paper towel out of her bag and uses that to wipe the board down instead. Maybe you’re right.

(Word count: 1295)