Almost the end of the day.
Last class of the week.
I had prepped well.
I entered the classroom.
Lectured for 45 minutes, uninterrupted.
Much vim and vigor.
The madness overtook me.
The students watched; I professed.
A blizzard of truth.
They were struck with awe.
Finally, I stopped. I asked the students if there were any questions. Any questions. Any. But there were none. (Usually, there are questions.)
After I stood there for a minute in silence, I gestured toward the door and thanked them for coming to class.
They exited. I looked down at the desk, dazed.
I had slept very little Wednesday night, so I was quite tired. I sat down in the chair, put my feet up on the desk, leaned back, and stared into the empty room.
That was one of the truest lectures I'd ever given in Rodent Calculus III. I wish I had recorded it. Such lucidity and brilliance. So well explained that all the students clearly understood and had no questions. Gauss and Leibniz would have been proud.
Fifteen minutes later, I was still sitting there staring nearly mindlessly. And it was then that I realized: I had just given the calculus lecture to the Hamster Statistical Infurence for Non-Majors class.
No wonder there were no questions.
So I went home and fell asleep.