Pardon me. The time has come to discuss a delicate matter. Of course, as a fragile Backroads flower, I am sorely vexed at the thought of somebody mistakenly assuming the topic is personal in nature. I assure you, it is a hypothetical scenario. Seriously.
The business of education has gone haywire with supervisory tactics. Teachers must watch students like a cast of hawks. From the time they arrive in the morning, they are under surveillance. Duty teachers. Cameras. Hallway teachers. Classroom teachers. I'm surprised students are allowed to visit the restroom-without-a-door lacking a teacher in tow. Students are never to be left unattended.
Suppose, hypothetically, of course, that a teacher comes down with a case of intestinal distress. Nothing like dysentery, mind you. More like a roaring bout of flatulence. Except it's not. Because the gas cannot escape. There is no window of opportunity. No instant when that teacher is student-free. Lunchtime has passed (unlike the trapped gases that percolate within that teacher's gut). The afternoon drags on. Four more classes. No breaks. Students must not be left unattended!
What is that teacher to do? Sit on the cushiony rolly chair and trap it in while her innards roil with bubbles intent on escape? Take a chance on laughing, coughing, barking commands...knowing all the while that such an act could cause an unauthorized release? Try to let some pressure escape, hoping for silent but deadly rather than an ear-shattering PPPFFFTTT or BRRAAAPPPP or balloon-stem squeakage that will draw attention to herself?
If only that hypothetical teacher could step out into the hall for a clandestine emission. But no. Students must not be left unattended! And a new camera has been installed ten feet from the classroom door, with a fisheye lens, no doubt, monitoring traffic in and out the main back door to the parking lot.
The four minutes between classes is not an option. New students flood in before old students rush out. It's like they are waiting in starting blocks for the bell, in an effort to win the class-change gold medal. Standing in the hall between classes is not an opportune time for a gaseous release. Sure, it could be blamed on a passing student. But those entering the classroom would comment and question.
At times, a teacher in distress must wish to jab a sharpened hollow instrument into her abdomen with the force a ten-year-old jabs that finely-honed plastic straw into a bag of Capri Sun.
It's enough to make a teacher regret last evening's treat of a Fiber One fudge brownie.
Hypothetically, of course.