From Col. Kurtz's class I walked, somewhat stunned to my car to retrieve my cheap vinyl yoga mat for my next psychology class where I was quickly introduced in the ecstasy that is Hindu meditation. or if not Hindu meditation, at least, the latest flowery, bastardized American reincarnation of it.
Years later I now wish that it had been a serious version of Yoga so that I too could look 15 years younger, be limber enough to put my underwear on in the morning without falling over, and have an hour-long Tantric orgasm like Sting routinely has.
So if when I left I was not ecstatic with universal bliss, I was, at least grateful that it was the second easiest class I ever had since I did not have to take notes or doing anything but sit in the Lotus position.
From there I aumed my way in to my upper division psychology class where I was greeted by a professor who looked so aged, scholarly, and wise that I knew I had finally arrived at a real psychology class.
He started his articulate opening remarks, then stooped over and retrieved an accordion, which he proceeded to strap on, He started to sing an old fraternity song - a song which roughly mirrored the old polka tune I Don't Want Her, You Can Have Her, She's too Fat for Me...which left me slumping in my chair.
I wanted a degree in psychology to help me understand what it means to be human and to explore that with others. Instead I suddenly seemed doomed to become a singing neurologist, toting a copy of Jung's Interpretation of Dreams under one arm, a cheap yoga map under the other, and the deep desire to drink during my classes.
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Conclusion on the way...
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