A McCosh Memory

Entering McCosh 50 for a freshman-year survey course, I scoured the rickety front row seats for an impossible dream: a left-handed desk for my sinister writing requirements. Dashed as I was, I settled for, and into, a dexterously outfitted seat, contorted my body, spiral notebook, and pen, and proceeded to listen to the professor blissfully as I unwound my twisted form. It was then I discovered that, unlike high school, college lecture halls were not primarily meant for writing.