I could say it doesn't seem like it's been that long, but I've been doing this long enough that I don't remember not going through the rituals of the beginning of the semester -- writing syllabi, preparing course sites, figuring out what I need to say on the first day of the semester to keep from sounding like an idiot.
I don't remember a fall semester where I haven't had the nightmares born of the fear that things will not go well on the first day -- the A/V equipment fails, the classroom is made up of walls and nooks such that some of the students can't see or hear the lecture, I'm late for class, the students get frustrated and leave, I'm standing in front of the class in my underwear ... dealing with the fear spawns its own ritual, that of re-preparing in the last minute so that nothing goes wrong.
What I wear to my first day of classes each year is its own ritual. It's one of the few days I wear a suit, to remind myself that I'm not going into class naked like in my dreams.
Twenty-five years teaching, and in some ways it's like my first day, when I stood in front of my class in a navy blue suit. One of my students, in a thick Long Island accent, asked "Are you lost?" (It sounded to my midwestern ears as "Awwe yew Lawst?")
"No, I'm the professor for this class," I said.
"Ohh, I thought you were a student," she proclaimed.
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