I should be sitting at my desk in my classroom, but I’m huddled over a student desk because it’s a better spot to plug my laptop into all its little helpers (document camera, TV screen). I’m contemplating desks because I have some long-lasting fantasies about them.
My fantasy desk is polished wood. Its glossy surface reflects the slender glass vase with a single fresh flower. Today I’ve chosen a pheasant-eye narcissus from the garden I can see outside my window. A flowered china cup holds a fountain pen and a few razor-sharp pencils with pristine erasers. A leather-bound notebook (blank pages, please) awaits my thoughts. A banker’s lamp with a green glass shade sheds a spotlight on the space where I take up my pen and . . .
My real desk is a round table with a woodgrained plastic top. At this moment, it contains: a coffee cup (empty) and a water glass (also empty), two black and white composition books, a clipboard of reading records, 7 file folders stuffed with my life’s necessities, a three-ring binder, a cup of pencils (mostly without erasers because those are the ones I pick up off the floor), a cup of pens and highlighters, a book of Mad Libs, a red leather box of post-it notes, a glass paperweight, and a tiny painting of Westminster Abbey. There may be more underneath, but you get the picture.
Guess which desk I like better?