I’m not a teacher and I’m not going for any advanced degrees or even taking any certification classes, yet I still operate on a school calendar. I think September-to-June with a summer break to catch up on TV reruns is the way God and Caesar wanted us to live, despite the calendar that they came up with.
To me, Jan. 1 meant nothing. It came and went with a vague effort on my part at some resolutions (remember that blog I wrote about not wearing makeup on Mondays and not swearing and making eggs on Sundays and going to the movies? Yeah, well I’m through with that. You didn’t really think I was going to do any of that, did you?)
My biological calendar is this way, possibly because I wanted to be a teacher from the moment I walked into Miss Murphy’s kindergarten room and saw all that shiny wood, the Big Blocks, the fat crayons, and Dick and Jane. My dream to become the next Miss Murphy, with her frosted flip, A-line dresses and pumps, lasted only until I decided I would instead be Miss Wire, the smoking hot home ec teacher, who wore sunshine yellow three days a week and had big, black hair and a bigger smile.
(Miss Wire, it was rumored, wore a different outfit every single day, never repeating. Several of us kept track, just to make sure. I think I put more effort into Miss Wire’s outfit chart than I did my final science project. The legend was that she went home every night after school and sewed up a new dress or pants suit for the next day. And she didn’t even teach sewing; she taught cooking! I told you she was awesome!)
I played school constantly in elementary school. In high school, I was a member of Future Teachers of America for four years. I was going to be a teacher. Until about five minutes before I was to pick a college major and someone offhandedly mentioned that there was a glut of teachers and I’d never find work and even if I did, I’d be paid badly and I’d be poor. I had a flash of doubt that I’d ever be able to afford the Miss Wire fashion lifestyle, and decided to major in journalism, where I might be able to pull off a Brenda Star.
My husband thinks it’s weird that I remember every one of my teachers. I can’t remember where I parked my car at Walmart 45 minutes ago, but I remember Miss Murphy, Mrs. Weimer, Miss Young, Mrs. Brown, Miss Patrick, Miss Scott, Mr. Buchenic, Miss Kolovich, Mr. Bobosh and beyond. (For high school, I’m going to have to be cued with subjects, but I could come up with all of them.)
How could you not remember your teachers? They were more important than our parents. We idolized them, wanted to be them or marry them, and dreamed of babysitting for their kids so we could get a glimpse into their inner secret lives.
Or am I the only one? Yes? Okay, well, I was kind of a brown-nose.
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