Pardon me while I go a little bit ballistic. After I'm done, I plan to go out for coffee with a girl who is a little bit pregnant, a guy who almost won a horseshoe tournament, and a quadruple amputee who was close to releasing his hand grenade correctly. No, I'm not. Silly! I don't even drink coffee.
I don't know if I can take much more. I don't demand much from my custodian, Cus. A simple sweeping and wastebasket dumping daily is enough for me. The aura of godliness is not in the divine plan for my classroom. I have a place for everything, and like everything in its place. Even those stacks of files and odd papers piled here and there. Yes. I don't like people touching my cheese nor my classroom equipment. Therein lies the problem.
HEY! CUSTODIAN! LEAVE THOSE DESKS ALONE!
I wish Pink Floyd would write a song with that title. Or even that hook. It needs to become common knowledge. An unwritten workplace rule. Sometimes, in my daydreams, I confront Cus. "Who do you think you are, that substitute I had six years ago? It is MY classroom, and I decree the feng shui of my domain. Not you. How would you like it if I went all Fast Times at Ridgemont High Mr. Hand on you, and showed up at your house? But instead of teaching you a whole year's worth of history, I moved your couch back one-and-a-half tiles? Eighteen inches! You would be able to tell. And I can tell!"
If I don't take the time to move twenty-five desks back to the proper positions, I will not be able to walk across the back aisle of my classroom all day. My floor plan is carefully designed to allow maximum access around the perimeter, yet cram students into the middle like oversize sardines.
It's not like we leave furniture scattered willy-nilly like flotsam piled randomly by a hurricane surge. Desks are left in straight rows, lined up on the tile corners, with chairs pushed in at the end of each day. One can walk comfortably down the rows, even while pushing a broom if one so desires.
There is no need to reinvent the wheel, nor re-interior-decorate the classroom. It's overkill.
End of that little bit of a tirade. Let's go out for a 44 oz. Diet Coke.