The Seven Year Cinch

Seven Year Cinch

By cinch, I don't mean easy.  Teaching is never easy.  I mean it like the cinch of a belt: tightening for a better fit.

Yesterday marked 6.5 years that I've been teaching.  It's pretty amazing, considering the fact that I would wake up every morning during my first year and spend my time in the shower slowly opening my eyes and considering other career options.  But first year of teaching is hard.  For pretty much everybody.  I would be lying if I said that I had any non-work-related friends during that first year.  And despite the fact that I have incredible colleagues whom I love dearly as coworkers and as friends, we were terrible about avoiding shop talk back then; sometimes even happy hours ended up being stressful.  So I found solace in books and their fictional characters, and I took frequent walks through the park, trying to alleviate the need for adult contact with smiles from passing strangers and overheard conversations.

If that sounds pathetic, that's because it was.  But I made it through, like I'd done in other less-than-wonderful moments in life.  Like I did in high school.  I would take my 60-70 hour rookie work week over my sixteen-year-old self any day.  Between classes and homework, I probably spent just as much time working.  And on top of being awkward, lanky, shy, and severely plain, I didn't get paid for ANY of it.  (In fact, I think high school might have traumatized me.  While student teaching in Virginia, I once had to go to a seminar at a high school, and I literally could feel my blood pressure rising as I stepped inside.)  Then again, I had friends in high school.  So maybe first year was worse.

Six years later, teaching looks and feels very different.  I bring no work home.  I write my lesson plans a week ahead of time.  I manage children with greater ease.  (I admit to my classes that they're driving me nuts, and they only seem to like me better for it?)  Most importantly, I realized this year that for the first time since I started teaching, I can wing it.  Like Project Runway, I take the time and resources that I have, and I make it work.  And it works well.

Let me give you an example.  Yesterday evening, I looked at my lesson plan skeleton for today, dug out a couple of pieces of paper to copy, and left it at that until the morning.  Okay, if I'm honest, I looked at the skeleton, thought "Shit, I wish it was still vacation," copied some papers, and then threw some newspapers in my bag when I got home.  But that's my point!  I got there this morning with newspaper weather maps, came up with a basic framework for my lesson within five minutes, jotted it down in my plan book, and then taught it without a hitch.  Truthfully, it surprised me how well it went.  I've pulled this half-assed planning thing a few times since August, and every time, I go into it resigned to a mediocre lesson for the day.  And then the kids love it.  Sometimes they love it better than my carefully planned lessons (jerks).

I would worry about all of this procrastination and laziness--am I getting bored or losing satisfaction with my job?--but then I actually teach one of my potentially mediocre lessons and I find myself in a state of joy as I do so.  Maybe that sounds crazy.  Joy is for births and weddings and Christmas songs.  But really, when I'm in it with the kids and things are going smoothly, or I find an article about stars that I know they'll love, I find myself enveloped in that moment, aware of how wonderful it is to be there.  And for me, that's what joy feels like.

While some days I wish I had a job that let me surf the internet for hours on end, I am incredibly thankful for the fact that teaching requires full mental commitment.  I remember a few years ago when this guy I liked (I mean, really liked--I'd had a crush on him for over a year) finally went out with me, and then broke up with me two weeks later.  I was devastated.  That night, I cried myself to sleep.  I walked into work the next day like a zombie.  But by the time the kids walked into my classroom, he wasn't important anymore.  He couldn't be.  There were twenty some-odd faces sitting in my chairs, waiting to feed their intellect, and I had to give them myself completely for the next four hours until lunch rolled around.  And when lunch got there, I was fine.  You can't be preoccupied when you're teaching.  You simply don't have the time.

I do find myself thinking about "Jack" at occasional moments during the work day.  At lunch.  Walking in the hallway between classes.  Worrying about running into his mom.  But with kids, he disappears from my consciousness.  Because there are weather maps to be read and class clowns to be shut down.  "Jack" can't compete with that.  Nothing can.

I told my parents about him, by the way.  Well, I told my mom, and I let her tell my dad so I didn't have to endure the embarrassment of going through it with both of them.  I've suffered that embarrassment plenty enough times in my life to know better.  Like the first time I got my period.  At the dinner table that night, my mom and I were having an unrelated argument about the connotations of the terms "girl" and "woman."  At one point, I said that I wouldn't feel like a woman until I got married or had kids (I was wrong), and my mom responded, "But you're a woman now."  My dad perked up: "Since when?"  Mom: "Since today."  And then I died for the thousandth time since puberty had begun.  Have I told you about the time I had to write my mom a letter to get a real bra?  Or to teach me how to shave my legs?  They are wonderful parents and exceptional human beings, and they are severely lacking in tact when it comes to responding to awkward moments in my life.

I broke the news to my mom one day last week while I was over at their house looking at paint cans and eating their food.  We were in the kitchen talking about my house.  There was a break in the conversation at one point, and I went to tell her about him ("I--"), and she cut me off with her own new line of thought.  Lose the battle, win the war.  So I waited and mustered up the courage later.  Despite plenty of consideration, I'd found no smooth way to transition to talking about him, so I just blurted it out.

Me: So, I'm seeing someone.
Mom: [pause] Like a male?
Me: Yes, mom, like a male.

As people had been trying to convince me for weeks, telling her wasn't that bad.  She was genuinely excited for me.  Genuinely unconcerned about the fact that he's a bartender.  Genuinely interested in meeting him.

Of course, she was probably also letting her own interests cloud her judgment.  You know those cartoons where someone sees an opportunity to strike it rich, and they get those big money signs in their eyes?  Well, imagine my mom's face like that, but with cute little babies in her eyes instead of money signs.  Parents and their obsession with grandchildren.  Sheesh.

I did lie about where I met him.  I'm not overly concerned about the fact that people know that we met on Tinder, but I feel weird about telling my parents that.  Actually, what I feel weird about is explaining to my mom and dad what Tinder is and worrying about them sharing it with their golf buddies, who I imagine are more "in the know" and will tell them about Tinder's reputation.  Obviously, I didn't use it to hook up.  But they don't know that.  They once found a thong in the laundry when I got back from studying abroad in France, and despite the fact that I hadn't even been kissed by that point, they freaked out on me.  I got lectured.  That was ten years ago, and there has been at least one shotgun wedding in the family since then, but still.  I'd rather not talk about sex with them, if I can help it.  So we met at kickball.

I do want them to meet him.  I don't know what my mom would cook if he came to dinner--she doesn't tend to make vegan food--and I don't know how that would work with his work schedule, but I do want it to happen.  I want him to become more a part of my world: more familiar with my friends and family, more familiar with me.  Via text today, I proposed that he see my new house when we see each other on Friday.  He hasn't been there yet--though he's heard more about it than he probably ever wanted to--and I feel like it would be a shame for him to only see the finished product.  There's already a lot of work that's been done (foundation and plumbing and electricity and AC and roofing), but most of that's pretty invisible.  The painting and new floors will make the visual difference, and I want him to see it before those happen.  Because this house means a lot to me.  And what's a relationship if not sharing the things that mean the most to you?

Alternatively, thank God for the Seven Year Cinch.  I don't know how I'd have time for a house and a a male someone if I were still a new teacher.

Progress, guys.  It's a-happenin'.

You've got a better bet with the daughter that's getting married, mom.