Wednesday, October 29, 2003
SCOTT M. PECK, M.D.
Author of the The Road Less Traveled (C.1978)wrote:
Until you value yourself, you won't value your time.
Until you value your time, you will not do anything with it.
Could this really be true? As the year wears on I find myself working later and I am more spent at close of the day. Yesterday morning, I slept through my alarm. I don't know how I did it. Usually I set one alarm for 5:00 am and the other for 5:15. Although I press snooze a couple of times, I am usually off to work by 6:30 am. But not yesterday. I had to call in to work "sick" because I was too ashamed to admit what I know to be true: I am running myself into the ground.
How did this happen? And what does it all have to do with the quote at the top of my blog?
My current situation (that is, running myself into the ground) parallels a situation that the famous (infamous) Dr. Peck illustrated in his book. The story goes that when he first began his practice, he found himself scheduling several patients a day, and then staying late to file paperwork, update his records, and other menial clerical duties. At 5:00 pm each day, he would see his colleagues pack their briefcases, close up shop and head home. Irritated, he grumbled to himself, which later led to complaints directed to his supervisor. Why were others leaving early? Didn't they have any work ethic? Why was he working so hard and others were free to leave unfinished work on their desks? Was he the only one that understood the concept of working until the job was done- and that to perfection?
His supervisor calmly reminded Dr. Peck that he was the one CHOOSING to stay until past 5 pm. The man was in charge of his schedule yet insisted on losing out on a social/family life and personal time. He was a slave to his career.
And this is how I feel. I wake up in the mornings feeling like I had no sleep at all (I'm a bit of an insomniac). I go to work, teach on my feet all day, have helps sessions after work, then grade papers, plan lessons, research subjects until 7 or 8 pm at night!!! Wistfully, I watch my colleagues leave for home with no bundle of papers to grade, and faces that register no stress or worry. How can this be?
Maybe a better question is: how can I break free from the chains of piles of homework? True, I don't always grade everything, I just check simple worksheets and pop quizzes to be sure the students grasp the concepts. I still feel guilty when I throw them in the trash (yes, teachers do that). And there is no end to the parents who intimate that we should have more writing in the classroom. There is the mom that consistently calls me to ask what we are doing in English and when will there be more writing so her "very brilliant" *rollling eyes* daughter can perfect her more than already brilliant writing skills? *rolling eyes again*? I feel like I'm being micromanaged by my administrators and the parents. I also feel like the mound of papers on my desk is going to rise up in protest one day and swallow me whole.
I wish it would.
I'm doing the best I can, but it's not good enough. So I stay late. I promise myself I will not leave this classroom until I have graded this, that, and the other. I make progress with grading on most days, but then I am too tired to make excellent lesson plans. Since I thrive on perfection when it comes to teaching and planning, the whole thing becomes one viscious cycle. Can perfection, excellence, deadlines, my social life, rest, and quality teaching coexist in this world of papers, red pens, moral and character development, and ceaseless faculty meetings?
The Department of Education has decreed that there be "no child left behind." Does this mean that my social life, well-being, and sanity be left behind in lieu of said child?
Here it is lunch time, and I'm grading 12-14 speech notebooks. I must complete them before speech class at 2 pm. They were to be finished last week so I could assign a new speech. Aggh! How do I juggle it all?
Until you value yourself, you won't value your time.
Until you value your time, you will not do anything with it.
I want to value myself. I deserve rest. I deserve a weekend out on the town with my friends. I do not need to work all day Mon-Fri and then work on Saturday and Sunday. This is ludicrous. Do I value my mental health? Do I value my friends and family? Do I value leisure time? Do I value excercise and good eating habits? Clearly not as much as I should. I must value my time by valuing myself first.
Today begins a new day.
Author of the The Road Less Traveled (C.1978)wrote:
Until you value yourself, you won't value your time.
Until you value your time, you will not do anything with it.
Could this really be true? As the year wears on I find myself working later and I am more spent at close of the day. Yesterday morning, I slept through my alarm. I don't know how I did it. Usually I set one alarm for 5:00 am and the other for 5:15. Although I press snooze a couple of times, I am usually off to work by 6:30 am. But not yesterday. I had to call in to work "sick" because I was too ashamed to admit what I know to be true: I am running myself into the ground.
How did this happen? And what does it all have to do with the quote at the top of my blog?
My current situation (that is, running myself into the ground) parallels a situation that the famous (infamous) Dr. Peck illustrated in his book. The story goes that when he first began his practice, he found himself scheduling several patients a day, and then staying late to file paperwork, update his records, and other menial clerical duties. At 5:00 pm each day, he would see his colleagues pack their briefcases, close up shop and head home. Irritated, he grumbled to himself, which later led to complaints directed to his supervisor. Why were others leaving early? Didn't they have any work ethic? Why was he working so hard and others were free to leave unfinished work on their desks? Was he the only one that understood the concept of working until the job was done- and that to perfection?
His supervisor calmly reminded Dr. Peck that he was the one CHOOSING to stay until past 5 pm. The man was in charge of his schedule yet insisted on losing out on a social/family life and personal time. He was a slave to his career.
And this is how I feel. I wake up in the mornings feeling like I had no sleep at all (I'm a bit of an insomniac). I go to work, teach on my feet all day, have helps sessions after work, then grade papers, plan lessons, research subjects until 7 or 8 pm at night!!! Wistfully, I watch my colleagues leave for home with no bundle of papers to grade, and faces that register no stress or worry. How can this be?
Maybe a better question is: how can I break free from the chains of piles of homework? True, I don't always grade everything, I just check simple worksheets and pop quizzes to be sure the students grasp the concepts. I still feel guilty when I throw them in the trash (yes, teachers do that). And there is no end to the parents who intimate that we should have more writing in the classroom. There is the mom that consistently calls me to ask what we are doing in English and when will there be more writing so her "very brilliant" *rollling eyes* daughter can perfect her more than already brilliant writing skills? *rolling eyes again*? I feel like I'm being micromanaged by my administrators and the parents. I also feel like the mound of papers on my desk is going to rise up in protest one day and swallow me whole.
I wish it would.
I'm doing the best I can, but it's not good enough. So I stay late. I promise myself I will not leave this classroom until I have graded this, that, and the other. I make progress with grading on most days, but then I am too tired to make excellent lesson plans. Since I thrive on perfection when it comes to teaching and planning, the whole thing becomes one viscious cycle. Can perfection, excellence, deadlines, my social life, rest, and quality teaching coexist in this world of papers, red pens, moral and character development, and ceaseless faculty meetings?
The Department of Education has decreed that there be "no child left behind." Does this mean that my social life, well-being, and sanity be left behind in lieu of said child?
Here it is lunch time, and I'm grading 12-14 speech notebooks. I must complete them before speech class at 2 pm. They were to be finished last week so I could assign a new speech. Aggh! How do I juggle it all?
Until you value yourself, you won't value your time.
Until you value your time, you will not do anything with it.
I want to value myself. I deserve rest. I deserve a weekend out on the town with my friends. I do not need to work all day Mon-Fri and then work on Saturday and Sunday. This is ludicrous. Do I value my mental health? Do I value my friends and family? Do I value leisure time? Do I value excercise and good eating habits? Clearly not as much as I should. I must value my time by valuing myself first.
Today begins a new day.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
THE COST OF FREEDOM
The amount owed on my car when I drove it off the lot (last year, October)- $20,000
The amount I currently own- $17,065.20
The amount I pay on the car each month- $350.00
Two week's worth of gas - $50.00
Tri-montly oil change - $24.00
"The Works" car wash- $16.00
The ability to drive my OWN car any time of day or night; the freedom to take a road-trip at any time; the capability to give rides to at least 4 friends; the means to take a 30 minute commute to and from work; the ability to be the "designated driver" and a host of other options- Pretty Damn Pricey!!!
The amount owed on my car when I drove it off the lot (last year, October)- $20,000
The amount I currently own- $17,065.20
The amount I pay on the car each month- $350.00
Two week's worth of gas - $50.00
Tri-montly oil change - $24.00
"The Works" car wash- $16.00
The ability to drive my OWN car any time of day or night; the freedom to take a road-trip at any time; the capability to give rides to at least 4 friends; the means to take a 30 minute commute to and from work; the ability to be the "designated driver" and a host of other options- Pretty Damn Pricey!!!
Thursday, October 23, 2003
LEITMOTIF
What is your leitmotif?
A leitmotif is often described as a short melody or phrase that is played, read, or spoken when an individual or an intangible idea re-materializes in a play or a musical.
What if we could hear or speak leitmotifs? What if we could hear words or bars of music in our heads as we interacted with friends, family, and strangers alike- throughout the course of our day? ...something like a musical?
I think I heard a leitmotif yesterday, when I had supervision duty during lunch in the junior high Courtyard area. Until Monday, I had never had such a duty, Typically, I supervise the high school Ramada or cafeteria, once a week, every three months. The junior high courtyard is a chaotic, motley, carnival-like assortment of children of all ages and sizes (there is one boy with an abnormally large shaped head..I suppose the rest of the body is still catching up?)
A few of the junior high boys are tall and lean-- but there are tell-tale signs that puberty has begun to chisel its mark on their "I'm-not-a-boy-not-yet-a-man" bodies. Most of the junior high boys are short and...well- just short. And their voices- my God! So high! So squeaky! These are the boys you have to watch out for. They know they are little, and still in the stage where "little-ness" can be a manipulative tool when confused with "cuteness." They mill and weave in and out of the lunch line, around the picnic tables, while a surreptitious"JAWS" leitmotif plays in my head. Push. Shove. Tousle. Snatch. Toss. Pelt. Insult. It begins.
"Hey! Cut it out!" I yell. "YOU!" I point and curl my pointer finger toward me, in a motion that indicates the accused should make his way to my table. He bows his head in the appropriate "I'm ashamed" position, and displays a sheepish smile. He is probably forming a sheeish excuse in his sheepish head with every sheepish step he makes. I wag my finger and recite a brief lecture that concludes with an assignment for him to pick up all the trash and wipe off all the tables. I end the decree with a brief wave of my hand to shoo him away. I feel faint. It's hot and I can see the steam rising from my forearms as the sun sizzles my life away. When will this wretched duty be over?
The junior high girls on the other hand seem to keep to themselves, holding ramdom and immaterial conversations with sisterly advice along the lines of: "Ashley, you shouldn't take that from your mom- I can't believe she said that to you." I hear snippets of how "the whole class thinks my presentation was the best." There are tall girls, and little girls. Mostly physically awkward and frighteningly skinny girls: not quite sure what to do with their hair, or their chest, or how to sit properly in a skirt. I consider asking a stick- thin 7th grader how she feels about the fact that her legs don't touch when she walks. Better not. Don't want to have to wipe away snotty tears during my lunch hour. As I eat my own lunch, and scowl at the sun, I see the girls I should really be keeping an eye on. They dare to sit with the boys, trying to make mature conversation, even though it's more than painfully obvious to the silent observer the boys are interested only in their lunch and the latest of video games.
Yesterday, a young lady walked up to a group of guys and began to talk in low tones. I began to hear familiar strains of Cindi Lauper's "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" leitmotif. So...she's one of THOSE girls. Nonchalantly, they acknowledged her with a nod of their heads. I heard someone mock her for "practicing what you're gonna say to him." Hmmm...that's piquant. I tried to hear more but another girl sauntered up beside her and together they slid off. Arm in arm. To a corner. Whispers. Hands over mouths. Laughing. Flicking blonde-Pantene-Commercial hair. More laughing. I glanced at my watch. 10 more minutes.
The good thing is there are only two more days to go; except today I'm cramping and so help me, God- if any of those kids leave trash on the ground and I have to talk to them about it they will see the righteous anger of the demons within me. (whoa- did I just type that? It felt like satan just pushed himself inside me and possessed my innocent body. PMS. It's a bitch.)
At this moment, I am preparing myself to suffer. Through the heat. Through the mindless chatter. Through the emptiness of lunch without adult banter or witty repartee. I will suffer for 55 minutes until I hear the leitmotif for teacherseverywhere, and the sound that governs the structure of our work day.The chime of the bell. Time for 6th period.
What is your leitmotif?
A leitmotif is often described as a short melody or phrase that is played, read, or spoken when an individual or an intangible idea re-materializes in a play or a musical.
What if we could hear or speak leitmotifs? What if we could hear words or bars of music in our heads as we interacted with friends, family, and strangers alike- throughout the course of our day? ...something like a musical?
I think I heard a leitmotif yesterday, when I had supervision duty during lunch in the junior high Courtyard area. Until Monday, I had never had such a duty, Typically, I supervise the high school Ramada or cafeteria, once a week, every three months. The junior high courtyard is a chaotic, motley, carnival-like assortment of children of all ages and sizes (there is one boy with an abnormally large shaped head..I suppose the rest of the body is still catching up?)
A few of the junior high boys are tall and lean-- but there are tell-tale signs that puberty has begun to chisel its mark on their "I'm-not-a-boy-not-yet-a-man" bodies. Most of the junior high boys are short and...well- just short. And their voices- my God! So high! So squeaky! These are the boys you have to watch out for. They know they are little, and still in the stage where "little-ness" can be a manipulative tool when confused with "cuteness." They mill and weave in and out of the lunch line, around the picnic tables, while a surreptitious"JAWS" leitmotif plays in my head. Push. Shove. Tousle. Snatch. Toss. Pelt. Insult. It begins.
"Hey! Cut it out!" I yell. "YOU!" I point and curl my pointer finger toward me, in a motion that indicates the accused should make his way to my table. He bows his head in the appropriate "I'm ashamed" position, and displays a sheepish smile. He is probably forming a sheeish excuse in his sheepish head with every sheepish step he makes. I wag my finger and recite a brief lecture that concludes with an assignment for him to pick up all the trash and wipe off all the tables. I end the decree with a brief wave of my hand to shoo him away. I feel faint. It's hot and I can see the steam rising from my forearms as the sun sizzles my life away. When will this wretched duty be over?
The junior high girls on the other hand seem to keep to themselves, holding ramdom and immaterial conversations with sisterly advice along the lines of: "Ashley, you shouldn't take that from your mom- I can't believe she said that to you." I hear snippets of how "the whole class thinks my presentation was the best." There are tall girls, and little girls. Mostly physically awkward and frighteningly skinny girls: not quite sure what to do with their hair, or their chest, or how to sit properly in a skirt. I consider asking a stick- thin 7th grader how she feels about the fact that her legs don't touch when she walks. Better not. Don't want to have to wipe away snotty tears during my lunch hour. As I eat my own lunch, and scowl at the sun, I see the girls I should really be keeping an eye on. They dare to sit with the boys, trying to make mature conversation, even though it's more than painfully obvious to the silent observer the boys are interested only in their lunch and the latest of video games.
Yesterday, a young lady walked up to a group of guys and began to talk in low tones. I began to hear familiar strains of Cindi Lauper's "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" leitmotif. So...she's one of THOSE girls. Nonchalantly, they acknowledged her with a nod of their heads. I heard someone mock her for "practicing what you're gonna say to him." Hmmm...that's piquant. I tried to hear more but another girl sauntered up beside her and together they slid off. Arm in arm. To a corner. Whispers. Hands over mouths. Laughing. Flicking blonde-Pantene-Commercial hair. More laughing. I glanced at my watch. 10 more minutes.
The good thing is there are only two more days to go; except today I'm cramping and so help me, God- if any of those kids leave trash on the ground and I have to talk to them about it they will see the righteous anger of the demons within me. (whoa- did I just type that? It felt like satan just pushed himself inside me and possessed my innocent body. PMS. It's a bitch.)
At this moment, I am preparing myself to suffer. Through the heat. Through the mindless chatter. Through the emptiness of lunch without adult banter or witty repartee. I will suffer for 55 minutes until I hear the leitmotif for teacherseverywhere, and the sound that governs the structure of our work day.The chime of the bell. Time for 6th period.
Sunday, October 12, 2003
CRACKER BARREL
Today my roommate and I went for breakfast at Cracker Barrel. I enjoy eating there but the crowds! I would have skipped out on it altogether but since I had my heart set on hash brown casserole and eggs, I stuck through it. To make the pain of waiting for a table easier to bear, the store has a gift shop teeming with quintessential knick-knacks for every season and occasioon- in every size, pattern, and color. Everything is squeezed into a teeny tiny place, which makes browsing possible but damn right uncomfortable. We occupied ourselves by walking around the motley assortment of candles, Christmas tree ornaments, brooches, and stuffed animals. I confess I'm not one for knick-knacks- mostly because I try to stifle my ratpacking tendencies (everything is sentimental to me) and also because I don't have any room for shit like that. At this stage in my life, everything is about practicality.
In my perusing I did see a large cloth mat with black and gray checked squares. Even more interesting was the fact that there were large checker pieces with which to play the game of checkers. $9.99. I almost bought it- I thought my students would enjoy playing if we ever had a spare moment of freetime during class or after school. I wanted to buy it, but I didn't. I have learned that when I'm tempted to buy things I should really give myself 24 hours to think on it, so I don't become an impulse shopper. 24 hours to "think about it" helps to cut down on unecessary expenses. (Another trick I try is to only buy stuff if I can pay for it with cash. It's a great system and works out quite nicely. I recommend it to all.)
The thing that made my day at Cracker Barrel- and I hope I can brag on here without getting chastized- is that twice in one hour someone walked up to me and said "Wow- you're pretty." Before I go on, I should clear up two things. For one, this was not a situation akin to the lecherous men I discussed in a previous post. Second, the people who said this were older women. One of them asked if I had ever considered modeling.
Now, I do not have what would be considered a modeling body; furthermore, I have no interest in that profession. I also want to make it clear that I would never go up to people and say- "I'm pretty", because this is not what I typically think of myself. I actually think I have to work a little to look presentable for the public at large- and on the days when I don't try- it shows. I have always found it odd that people say things like that to me and wondered if they weren't just saying something to say something- you know, like when you pass someone in a tight hallway on your way to the restroom?
I don't think I'm pretty. I think I'm ... hmmm.. I think I'm attractive. On a good day- I think I can be pretty- but not always. I think that what people look at the most is the way I wear my hair. I have found that when I do interesting things with my hair, people look at my face more, and are prone to make such comments. Yesterday, I wore it in two braids and I think it framed my face quite nicely- thus eliciting the comments.
Another thing is I think that I take good care of my skin. I wash my face daily with Sal Ac- it works wonders. I've never had a problem with acne, but I use it anyway. The other thing is I don't wear a lot of makeup. In fact, I wear close to none. Apart from my eyeliner and some red lipstuff, that's about all I wear. I think that it could be the color of what I wear on my lips against my skin color that people find interesting.
Sigh. Maybe I should just stop analyzing the compliment and take it for what it is. A compliment. Thanks ladies. You made my day.
:)
Today my roommate and I went for breakfast at Cracker Barrel. I enjoy eating there but the crowds! I would have skipped out on it altogether but since I had my heart set on hash brown casserole and eggs, I stuck through it. To make the pain of waiting for a table easier to bear, the store has a gift shop teeming with quintessential knick-knacks for every season and occasioon- in every size, pattern, and color. Everything is squeezed into a teeny tiny place, which makes browsing possible but damn right uncomfortable. We occupied ourselves by walking around the motley assortment of candles, Christmas tree ornaments, brooches, and stuffed animals. I confess I'm not one for knick-knacks- mostly because I try to stifle my ratpacking tendencies (everything is sentimental to me) and also because I don't have any room for shit like that. At this stage in my life, everything is about practicality.
In my perusing I did see a large cloth mat with black and gray checked squares. Even more interesting was the fact that there were large checker pieces with which to play the game of checkers. $9.99. I almost bought it- I thought my students would enjoy playing if we ever had a spare moment of freetime during class or after school. I wanted to buy it, but I didn't. I have learned that when I'm tempted to buy things I should really give myself 24 hours to think on it, so I don't become an impulse shopper. 24 hours to "think about it" helps to cut down on unecessary expenses. (Another trick I try is to only buy stuff if I can pay for it with cash. It's a great system and works out quite nicely. I recommend it to all.)
The thing that made my day at Cracker Barrel- and I hope I can brag on here without getting chastized- is that twice in one hour someone walked up to me and said "Wow- you're pretty." Before I go on, I should clear up two things. For one, this was not a situation akin to the lecherous men I discussed in a previous post. Second, the people who said this were older women. One of them asked if I had ever considered modeling.
Now, I do not have what would be considered a modeling body; furthermore, I have no interest in that profession. I also want to make it clear that I would never go up to people and say- "I'm pretty", because this is not what I typically think of myself. I actually think I have to work a little to look presentable for the public at large- and on the days when I don't try- it shows. I have always found it odd that people say things like that to me and wondered if they weren't just saying something to say something- you know, like when you pass someone in a tight hallway on your way to the restroom?
I don't think I'm pretty. I think I'm ... hmmm.. I think I'm attractive. On a good day- I think I can be pretty- but not always. I think that what people look at the most is the way I wear my hair. I have found that when I do interesting things with my hair, people look at my face more, and are prone to make such comments. Yesterday, I wore it in two braids and I think it framed my face quite nicely- thus eliciting the comments.
Another thing is I think that I take good care of my skin. I wash my face daily with Sal Ac- it works wonders. I've never had a problem with acne, but I use it anyway. The other thing is I don't wear a lot of makeup. In fact, I wear close to none. Apart from my eyeliner and some red lipstuff, that's about all I wear. I think that it could be the color of what I wear on my lips against my skin color that people find interesting.
Sigh. Maybe I should just stop analyzing the compliment and take it for what it is. A compliment. Thanks ladies. You made my day.
:)
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
THOUGHTS THAT KEEP ME UP AT NIGHT/Chapter II
1. Why am I still up? Why do I feel nauseated?
2. Why did Stephen (close friend) stand me up for our plans tonight? What a cad.
3. Why didn't I go to the Imax tonight?
4. Should I move out of here soon? Go back to living on my own?
5. I wonder how much money is in my bank account.
6. How the hell am I going to pay the registration for my car? $285?! That's ludicrous.
7. My toe nails are beautiful!! I am beautiful because my toenails are beautiful!!! (I just got them french manicured..lalala)
8. I wasted today. I should have never agreed to go to that Speech and Debate meet! That was boring as hell.
9. I have no clean underwear for next week. I better do some laundry.
10. Agh... reading poetry is making me sleepy. Who knew?
1. Why am I still up? Why do I feel nauseated?
2. Why did Stephen (close friend) stand me up for our plans tonight? What a cad.
3. Why didn't I go to the Imax tonight?
4. Should I move out of here soon? Go back to living on my own?
5. I wonder how much money is in my bank account.
6. How the hell am I going to pay the registration for my car? $285?! That's ludicrous.
7. My toe nails are beautiful!! I am beautiful because my toenails are beautiful!!! (I just got them french manicured..lalala)
8. I wasted today. I should have never agreed to go to that Speech and Debate meet! That was boring as hell.
9. I have no clean underwear for next week. I better do some laundry.
10. Agh... reading poetry is making me sleepy. Who knew?
Monday, October 06, 2003
PATRICK
If I could, I would DRINK Patrick’s bath water.
That, in a nutshell, speaks volumes about how I feel about this man. You know that feeling you get when you accidentally wake up early on Saturday morning, thinking you’re late for work, but soon realize “Whee! It’s Saturday!” and you dive back under the covers for a second helping of REM? That’s what being around Patrick feels like- comfortable, and relaxing. Patrick is yummy in every way- like that sheet of warm, gooey, double chocolate chip homemade cookies that’s baking in your oven on a Saturday night just before you slip into your jammies and watch a feel-good movie. Patrick is subtle inspiration. He’s like dawn and dusk- those few hours of our lives when day and night are juxtaposed in a delightful yet enigmatic way. Patrick is aesthetically pleasing- I think I could look at his face, his body (sigh), and listen to his voice for the rest of my life- endlessly, and effortlessly.
I first met Patrick when he was just a freshman in the Great Wide World of Dentistry. I still remember our first mesmerizing discourse- a healthy volley of humble opinions and Socratic questions centered around a book we had both (coincidentally) just read. He held my attention, he got me thinking; he made me laugh. I left the conversation respecting him, curious about him... wanting him.
Unfortunately, as these things go, my attention that summer was required elsewhere. Another young man had lured me away from all that was good and wholesome in life (see " Patrick") and, because I was stupid and didn’t see all his flirtatious signs or catch all his vibes, the potential between Patrick and I remained dormant, and never came to fruition.
If my life or that summer were to be featured in a “Where Are They Now?” special, you would see Patrick as he is today- a certified dentist with a successful practice in Missouri, and you would see me- a certified teacher in Arizona. Neither of us discontent with our station in life- but ready and open to the next stage of life. You would see that Patrick and I have minimally stayed in touch. Somewhere toward the middle of the program, the musical score would turn into ominous minor chords, and you would learn of a phone call that occurred just a few weeks ago, in which Patrick-the-Dentist and I-the Teacher confessed sheepishly that we had both had mutual crushes on each other in the summer of ‘97. On that same episode, you may also see a reenacted clip of the silence that enveloped the conversation when that bit of juicy information was proffered, and you would see the chagrin manifest on our faces.
What can I now insert here about love that seems to bud and blossom out of season? What words can I logically arrange to convey the sense of loss I felt when I learned this information too late? Subsequent conversations, needless to say, have not revealed any further feelings on his part- and I'm not about to go down the well beaten path of unrequited love with which I am so familiar. In short, we’re too far away from each other to say that we could (once again) be interested in one another wholly. I suppose I have to be content to know that once upon a time, the chance was there: a delicious-piece-of-man-candy-on-a-stick (see "Patrick") was ready and willing for me to devour him with my affection and attention, but I chose instant gratification and forfeited my opportunity.
Since we last revealed this secret to each other, I have spent many an hour imagining what I would do if I could have that summer to live over again. I think the most important thing is I would turn my flirting skills up several notches- say, from “mild” to “El Scorcho”**** or “Muy Caliente.” I would be more aggressive about telling him that I am interested. I would reach out and touch him more, and not shyly keep my hands to myself like I am often prone to do when I’m around the object of my affection. I wouldn’t doubt myself so much. I wouldn’t allow myself to doubt (as I often do) that someone of his caliber, of his looks, of his potential, of his intellectual prowess could ever be interested in one like me.
****Term shamelessly stolen from Del Taco
If I could, I would DRINK Patrick’s bath water.
That, in a nutshell, speaks volumes about how I feel about this man. You know that feeling you get when you accidentally wake up early on Saturday morning, thinking you’re late for work, but soon realize “Whee! It’s Saturday!” and you dive back under the covers for a second helping of REM? That’s what being around Patrick feels like- comfortable, and relaxing. Patrick is yummy in every way- like that sheet of warm, gooey, double chocolate chip homemade cookies that’s baking in your oven on a Saturday night just before you slip into your jammies and watch a feel-good movie. Patrick is subtle inspiration. He’s like dawn and dusk- those few hours of our lives when day and night are juxtaposed in a delightful yet enigmatic way. Patrick is aesthetically pleasing- I think I could look at his face, his body (sigh), and listen to his voice for the rest of my life- endlessly, and effortlessly.
I first met Patrick when he was just a freshman in the Great Wide World of Dentistry. I still remember our first mesmerizing discourse- a healthy volley of humble opinions and Socratic questions centered around a book we had both (coincidentally) just read. He held my attention, he got me thinking; he made me laugh. I left the conversation respecting him, curious about him... wanting him.
Unfortunately, as these things go, my attention that summer was required elsewhere. Another young man had lured me away from all that was good and wholesome in life (see " Patrick") and, because I was stupid and didn’t see all his flirtatious signs or catch all his vibes, the potential between Patrick and I remained dormant, and never came to fruition.
If my life or that summer were to be featured in a “Where Are They Now?” special, you would see Patrick as he is today- a certified dentist with a successful practice in Missouri, and you would see me- a certified teacher in Arizona. Neither of us discontent with our station in life- but ready and open to the next stage of life. You would see that Patrick and I have minimally stayed in touch. Somewhere toward the middle of the program, the musical score would turn into ominous minor chords, and you would learn of a phone call that occurred just a few weeks ago, in which Patrick-the-Dentist and I-the Teacher confessed sheepishly that we had both had mutual crushes on each other in the summer of ‘97. On that same episode, you may also see a reenacted clip of the silence that enveloped the conversation when that bit of juicy information was proffered, and you would see the chagrin manifest on our faces.
What can I now insert here about love that seems to bud and blossom out of season? What words can I logically arrange to convey the sense of loss I felt when I learned this information too late? Subsequent conversations, needless to say, have not revealed any further feelings on his part- and I'm not about to go down the well beaten path of unrequited love with which I am so familiar. In short, we’re too far away from each other to say that we could (once again) be interested in one another wholly. I suppose I have to be content to know that once upon a time, the chance was there: a delicious-piece-of-man-candy-on-a-stick (see "Patrick") was ready and willing for me to devour him with my affection and attention, but I chose instant gratification and forfeited my opportunity.
Since we last revealed this secret to each other, I have spent many an hour imagining what I would do if I could have that summer to live over again. I think the most important thing is I would turn my flirting skills up several notches- say, from “mild” to “El Scorcho”**** or “Muy Caliente.” I would be more aggressive about telling him that I am interested. I would reach out and touch him more, and not shyly keep my hands to myself like I am often prone to do when I’m around the object of my affection. I wouldn’t doubt myself so much. I wouldn’t allow myself to doubt (as I often do) that someone of his caliber, of his looks, of his potential, of his intellectual prowess could ever be interested in one like me.
****Term shamelessly stolen from Del Taco
Sunday, October 05, 2003
MUSCLES
I feel a word or two must be said here about muscles. It is high time that I defined for myself exactly how I feel about them. The first question that must be addressed is whether I find muscles attractive. To answer that question, I must first remind you of the movie Blue Lagoon, which is the first thing I think of when I see “man” and “muscle” in the same sentence. In this movie, Brooke Shield’s character begins to find herself staring at her friend/partner/soon-to-be-lover’s arms, as he spears fish and makes weapons, and fashions their hut with foliage and so forth. The camera closes in on shots of the youth’s sinewy, tan arms- to make it clear that they are what caught her attention. This symbolizes the first fruits of her pubertal passion.
This movie reminds me of myself, as a freshman. There was an upper classman I had a crush on that year; it was the sight of his muscular, bronze body pushed to the zenith of physical exertion on the basketball court everyday after school that made me drool with desire. To that end, I think the movie Blue Lagoon adequately portrays aspects of the opposite sex that we begin to pay attention to when our raging adolescent hormones take over. What I thought was an affinity for this upperclassman’s deft basketball skills, could have been just a sexual curiosity about his developed body- and the bas relief effect of his muscles in comparison to the other boys my age.
I suppose that there is just something about watching muscles ripple when a man is at work or play... something about running your fingertips over them gently in moments of tender affection. From the smaller muscles in the hand and forearm, to the more pronounced muscles around the legs and shoulders …what is so intriguing and appealing? Maybe this is the way men feel about breasts- they like them because they can't have them?
But in these days and times when men are pressured just as much as women to have the ideal body, what is “too much muscle”? What is “not enough”? A few years back, I was briefly interested in a man who was 250+ lbs of pure, pure, pure muscle. At least I think it was 250lbs. (You will recall that I’m not a genius with the numbers so do the calculations as needed.) Either way, he was solid muscle, and actually won a body building competition here and there. He worked out every day for hours. (Shortly thereafter, I learned that he was suffering from “little man’s disease” and that was the reason for all the hard hours at the gym.) The thing about it is I was attracted to his muscles for all of what- 24 hours?? After that, what the hell was I going to do with them? Where could I take that? If anything, his muscles were too huge to serve any real purpose. The man barely fit into his clothes-it always seemed like his pants were stretched to the breaking point, threatening to pop off at any second.
Now, I’m not sure if talking about one’s former love interests is gauche but -in stark contrast- my ex is/was thin. Well, he was lean- with just a hint of muscle to his upper arms. I can’t say that I am generally attracted to one body type when it comes to men, but I do know that I enjoyed his lean build and “baby-petit-underdeveloped-miniature-dwarflike-stunted growth-barely-there- big-as-a-twinkie-and-smooth-to-the-touch” muscles very much, and I often purrrrrrred my approval during our intimate moments, where he used said muscles to prop himself up for our demanding and athletic "nocturnal activities. "
But I digress...
I feel a word or two must be said here about muscles. It is high time that I defined for myself exactly how I feel about them. The first question that must be addressed is whether I find muscles attractive. To answer that question, I must first remind you of the movie Blue Lagoon, which is the first thing I think of when I see “man” and “muscle” in the same sentence. In this movie, Brooke Shield’s character begins to find herself staring at her friend/partner/soon-to-be-lover’s arms, as he spears fish and makes weapons, and fashions their hut with foliage and so forth. The camera closes in on shots of the youth’s sinewy, tan arms- to make it clear that they are what caught her attention. This symbolizes the first fruits of her pubertal passion.
This movie reminds me of myself, as a freshman. There was an upper classman I had a crush on that year; it was the sight of his muscular, bronze body pushed to the zenith of physical exertion on the basketball court everyday after school that made me drool with desire. To that end, I think the movie Blue Lagoon adequately portrays aspects of the opposite sex that we begin to pay attention to when our raging adolescent hormones take over. What I thought was an affinity for this upperclassman’s deft basketball skills, could have been just a sexual curiosity about his developed body- and the bas relief effect of his muscles in comparison to the other boys my age.
I suppose that there is just something about watching muscles ripple when a man is at work or play... something about running your fingertips over them gently in moments of tender affection. From the smaller muscles in the hand and forearm, to the more pronounced muscles around the legs and shoulders …what is so intriguing and appealing? Maybe this is the way men feel about breasts- they like them because they can't have them?
But in these days and times when men are pressured just as much as women to have the ideal body, what is “too much muscle”? What is “not enough”? A few years back, I was briefly interested in a man who was 250+ lbs of pure, pure, pure muscle. At least I think it was 250lbs. (You will recall that I’m not a genius with the numbers so do the calculations as needed.) Either way, he was solid muscle, and actually won a body building competition here and there. He worked out every day for hours. (Shortly thereafter, I learned that he was suffering from “little man’s disease” and that was the reason for all the hard hours at the gym.) The thing about it is I was attracted to his muscles for all of what- 24 hours?? After that, what the hell was I going to do with them? Where could I take that? If anything, his muscles were too huge to serve any real purpose. The man barely fit into his clothes-it always seemed like his pants were stretched to the breaking point, threatening to pop off at any second.
Now, I’m not sure if talking about one’s former love interests is gauche but -in stark contrast- my ex is/was thin. Well, he was lean- with just a hint of muscle to his upper arms. I can’t say that I am generally attracted to one body type when it comes to men, but I do know that I enjoyed his lean build and “baby-petit-underdeveloped-miniature-dwarflike-stunted growth-barely-there- big-as-a-twinkie-and-smooth-to-the-touch” muscles very much, and I often purrrrrrred my approval during our intimate moments, where he used said muscles to prop himself up for our demanding and athletic "nocturnal activities. "
But I digress...
Thursday, October 02, 2003
I DON’T HATE YOU; I HATE YOUR DISEASE
Things I wish I could tell you…
You. You try my patience. You are quite possibly the most irritating student I have ever had. I wish I could give your parents a stern talking to about their reproductive responsibilities. It is exhausting to look at you. Every day that you’re absent I breathe more easily. I do not miss you when you are ill. I do not miss you when you are tardy. At times, it's my desire to forget about you altogether.
Why do you smile that foolish, sheepish grin when you talk to me? I will never think you are funny. I will never think you are cute. You are lazy and, at the moment, utterly useless. The only way you can make decent grades is if the school made lunch and football actual subjects...seriously...why are you so lazy? Why do you rest that oversized head of yours on the desk when you should be taking notes? Why do I have to make special accommodations for you, when your only learning disability is acute LAZINESS? What do you carry in the abyss you call your backpack? Clearly, it's not your text book or your homework, as those are often strewn about my classroom once 3rd period is over. Why are the few assignments you actually turn in always shredded and crumpled- as if you chewed them up and then regurgitated them?
You mother and father empty their wallets for you every year, hoping that a private education will miraculously make you smarter. Are they also as daft as you are? You cannot keep up. You cannot read. You cannot write. You cannot think. You cannot.
My role as a teacher is to be a torch bearer- to pass on to you the intricate beauty of the language that is your mother tongue. My duty is to help you appreciate English by unlocking its mysteries; I strive to perfect your ability to use it, so that you may one day become an articulate member of society. Still, when I look at you, I fear for our collective future. I fear for your future wife and children.
Each handout I carefully prepare, each lesson I painstakingly organize, each mark I thoughtfully dab on your papers as I grade them is wasted on you. You are, metaphorically speaking, sucking the life out of my educational teats.
Things I wish I could tell you…
You. You try my patience. You are quite possibly the most irritating student I have ever had. I wish I could give your parents a stern talking to about their reproductive responsibilities. It is exhausting to look at you. Every day that you’re absent I breathe more easily. I do not miss you when you are ill. I do not miss you when you are tardy. At times, it's my desire to forget about you altogether.
Why do you smile that foolish, sheepish grin when you talk to me? I will never think you are funny. I will never think you are cute. You are lazy and, at the moment, utterly useless. The only way you can make decent grades is if the school made lunch and football actual subjects...seriously...why are you so lazy? Why do you rest that oversized head of yours on the desk when you should be taking notes? Why do I have to make special accommodations for you, when your only learning disability is acute LAZINESS? What do you carry in the abyss you call your backpack? Clearly, it's not your text book or your homework, as those are often strewn about my classroom once 3rd period is over. Why are the few assignments you actually turn in always shredded and crumpled- as if you chewed them up and then regurgitated them?
You mother and father empty their wallets for you every year, hoping that a private education will miraculously make you smarter. Are they also as daft as you are? You cannot keep up. You cannot read. You cannot write. You cannot think. You cannot.
My role as a teacher is to be a torch bearer- to pass on to you the intricate beauty of the language that is your mother tongue. My duty is to help you appreciate English by unlocking its mysteries; I strive to perfect your ability to use it, so that you may one day become an articulate member of society. Still, when I look at you, I fear for our collective future. I fear for your future wife and children.
Each handout I carefully prepare, each lesson I painstakingly organize, each mark I thoughtfully dab on your papers as I grade them is wasted on you. You are, metaphorically speaking, sucking the life out of my educational teats.
