Jobfulness

I'm a worker. I just love it. I love the feeling of being jarred into existence at 5:04, 5:13, and sometimes again at 5:29 am, scrounging under the couch in a desperate attempt to locate two matching toddler or baby-sized socks, and wondering how it could be possible that James does not have one single pair of clean pants. I love that, when I finally arrive at school, my students occasionally say, "We thought you were going to be gone today!" which I half-ignore while attempting to blot out the coffee stain on my freshly pressed white shirt.

Then the bell rings and I am on. My day is filled with the romance of literature: ideas, epiphanies, tragedies, allegories, parodies, comedies, and second chances. And the frustrations of technology that can't keep up, situations that have never before presented themselves, and, oh did I mention? TEENAGERS. And to boot, in the midst of it all, young minds ask questions like: "Are we allowed to wear wife-beaters here?" I laugh, cry, dance, sing, stutter, explicate, and lose my mind every day. It is not a boring job.

Sometimes, however, I fantasize about a different job. I find myself (usually at times, like now, when I am having a stand-off with a pile of ungraded Personal Narrative essays) searching CareerBuilder.com or Monster for something else. Something perfect. And usually I find it, but it is in New York City and requires seven years experience in publishing (which, technically, I have, btw). So I give it the test. The simple, simple, simple, simple test. The one I wish I could use to make all great decisions in my life. I ask, "Is it going to be hilarious?"

Because if it is not, then it is not as good as the job I have. For example, I just heard my BF across the hall say in a sing-song voice: "Please place your rough drafts on your desks. Lalalalala." Then a muffled response, and finally, from her: "Then I shun you."

And now I have the church giggles.