I don't want to love my students. The way one of them knocks on my door every day at 12:16 just to wave to me on her way to the cafeteria. The way one of my rather intimidating looking students did a jig before turning in his first piece of homework for the year. The way they tip-toed hesitantly into my class today because I had lost it on them yesterday for slacking. The way one of them stood up and announced that he wished to speak for the class and apologize for their behavior, and that they would all try to do better. The way I have to hide my giggles when they're inappropriate-or when I can't hide them at all. The way they ask me for relationship advice and parental advice and fashion advice-though I would be more inclined to ask them the latter. The way they take for granted that I will always be there, to help them, to fight for them, to defend them, to care for them for as long as I can. The way we have inside jokes. The way they ask me to come see their games and their plays. I don't want to love them. It is often too hard, too draining, too emotional, too much. I don't want to. Unfortunately, as I have learned, you can't always get what you want.

Herculean Bacterial Coup de Tat

I thought I had beaten the system.  Nearly two years floating around in public schools without nearly a sniffle.  It had to catch up to me sometime.  Though, it's possible that I've just been harboring all kinds of kid-germs and they all came out to play at once- which would explain the head-splitting ache in my skull and the fire-breathing dragon sore throat.  

I've all but injected Vitamin C, have tried snorting Advil Cold and Sinus to no avail, and have hung my head in misery over a steaming pot of water.  I quickly become angry.  This is all a ploy- a dirty trick.  I've been out-smarted by Herculean bacteria.  The ones that hide out inside your body like those gross foot-fungal commercials....or Mucinex....shudder...little green booger men sweating and scratching, getting ready to release their fury just as I'm off for Thanksgiving vacation.  

All and all, I refuse to let it beat me.  I will rejoice.  I will be Thankful.  I will be armed with Puffs Plus and a humidifier. 

Gobble, gobble.

Necessary Indulgences

Both a mani and pedi in the dead of winter. ( No one should have feet that look like that, even if they aren't going to be making any public appearances for a few more months).

Good shoes. Fun, good shoes. One pair of good, fun expensive shoes.

The purchase of a book at full retail price on the day it was released. Yes, I know you can just get it for free from the library, but who knows how many people have read it their bathroom???? Bet you never thought about that, hum?

An over-priced, overly sweet latte from Bigbucks....just once in a while, you have an itch only a four dollar coffee can scratch.

Mental Health Days. No work, no kids, no worries. Just you, a big bowl of popcorn and a sappy Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks combo.

Shoprite at Home. Hellooo....order your groceries on-line and they do your shopping for you- all you have to do is pull up with that over-priced latte I was talking about and watch as they lovingly place it in your car. No more Shoprite on Sundays has single handedly lowered my blood pressure.

A weekend away with your husband. Sure, you'll argue about who forgot to pack whose glasses, complain about the scratchy sheets and the way your car is always a mess- but isn't that all the stuff you'd do at home already? New places even make arguing more fun.

Fresh Flowers, Fresh Produce, Fresh Food. All capitalized for good reason. They may feel like indulgences, but there are few things more necessary.

Good wine and good chocolate. Neither necessarily mean expensive, just that they are important enough to splurge on when necessary. If a good wine's 7.00, then awesome- if it's 70.00, aren't you worth it?

Showing "The Goonies" to your class full of 17 year olds on a rainy Friday under the guise of utilizing it as a "Writing Prompt" for an essay about Childhood Adventures. Yes, I'm that smart. This day is awesome.

I know I have much more necessary indulgences, what are yours???

Gym Politics

In light of the up and coming election, I thought I would articulate some of my thoughts on political matters at large....no, this is not the forum to declare which candidate has my support- I seldom discuss it publically in person, why display it all over the internet?- but to discuss an entirely different set of politics I am sure most of us are aware of. The politics of the Gym.

Let's get one thing straight. I hate the gym. Everything about the gym, actually. I hate the spandex, I hate the sweaty towels, I hate the soccer moms in their forties fooling themselves into believing that wearing pink stretch pants with flirty sayings across their behinds is appropriate. That is singularly why, after three years of living down the street, I conceded and joined the YMCA. I mean, there's nothing intimidating about the Y, right? A bunch of fat people just like me minding their own business, trying to keep their feet on the eliptical machine while changing songs on their ipods-you laugh, but for someone as uncoordinated as myself, this is a feat worthy of celebration. Six weeks ago I walked into to Y for the first time and was hit in the face by more than the musky stink.

There are two rooms of cardio equipment and you must walk through one in order to get to the other. You enter into the back room first, filled with sub-par machines and dirty carpet stains that seem to be designated for the morbidly obese, terribly self-conscious, geriatric wing of Mountainside Hospital. As you make your way through the "back room", silently encouraging the gentlemen who seems about to suffer cardiac arrest if he spends one more second on the bike and the young girl who is having trouble trying to convince the wall to swallow her, you catch a glimpse of the utopia that lays ahead.

The "front room". The front room is a dizzying display of lycra and flat screen televisions. Matching sweatsuits, ipod armbands, nalgene bottles. Everyone is so tan and shiny and serious looking! You recognize immediately that you do not belong there. You notice that people even scowl as you pass through. And it's not the "I'm working really hard here and I can't control my facial expressions" it's the, "you can't honestly think that you belong here, sweating next to me".

I allowed the front room trolls control my whereabouts for three weeks. I knew where I belonged. I don't have a matching sweatsuit. In fact, I actually had to go and purchase sweatpants so that I would have something to work out in. I gave the girl who hogged the wall spot the evil eye. Who needs a flat screen t.v. right on your machine, anyway? Watching the old guy in Richard Simmons tights plod along on the tredmill was entertainment enough, right?

As I said, it lasted three weeks. On my forth week, unsure of what came over me, I ventured back into the front room. I was tired of machines sticky with ben-gay. I was tired of watching little miss, "I have a really tight ass; that's why I'm wearing these spandex pants the same color of my skin ," from the doorway. So what if I was wearing mismatched socks? So what if I didn't have a , "NYC marathon '08" tee-shirt on? I bet he didn't even run. Probably handed out those tee-shirts and got to keep one for free for volunteering. I parked my feet into that fancy-shmancy eliptical machine and felt like singing. It glided gently-something I was unaware an eliptical was supposed to do since the one I'd been using got stuck everytime my left foot went down-it had a remote for the t.v.! It did all but serve me sparkling water at the end of my work-out ( I'm pretty sure it does do that, but secrets are well kept in the front room). I had hit the jack-pot. I was not going back. At the finish of my workout I glanced around once more. You know the tight-ass girl? She has cellulite. The marathon man? All the tred-mill running in the world isn't going to fix that saggy man-boob syndrome.

I threw a smile in the wall-flower girl's direction assuring her that the grass was indeed greener on the other side and we had just as much right as the rest of the lycra posse to indulge. I hope she'll take the long walk up to the front soon. I'd be glad to save her a spot right next to me. Perhaps we could even watch Oprah together and toast with our cheap, plastic water bottles that we won't recycle to reclaiming our dignity, our humanity and our right to a bright, shiny machine without judgement. So, scowl away lycra ladies- we're coming in and we're here to stay.

Indecisive-less

I have a problem. I'm not sure how big of a problem it is, or if, in fact, it is a problem at all. Even in that example shines the very essence of my problem. I am indecisive. I'm more than indecisive. I am maddening. Ask my husband.

I wake up in a cold sweat exactly six minutes before my alarm goes off every morning. I squeeze my eyes tighter as I wait for the rain of assailing questions. What will I wear today? Pants suit or black skirt? Eggs or cereal? Do I even have time for breakfast? Coffee before shower or shower before coffee? Peanut butter or tuna for lunch? Trust me, it doesn't end there. My indecisiveness has permeated every part of life from my majors in college ( yes, majors- I went from Music to Psych back to Music to Communications to graduating with an English degree) to the restaurant my husband told me to pick for our night out. Ethiopian or Thai? Italian. Italian's always safe. Unless...

Of course, I realize that my indecisiveness has a ceiling. I mean, I married after all. I had to decide on that. I choose the new car we drive without hesitation. I hands down know that I can't wear pink without a tan. So, why doesn't that part of me drift over into the other, more annoying part?

For several reasons, I believe. I tend to take the saying, " If you say yes to something, you're saying no to something else" quite seriously. And I am not a say-no-er. I hate to say no. To anything. (Unless it's directly related to physical activity. ) If I commit to taking French lessons, then I certainly can't take Portuguese. If I invest more practice time on the guitar, I won't have any time for the piano. If I say yes to the lunch date with a friend, I am a bad wife for not staying home to clean my disaster of a house. And so on. The second reason being, the typical people-pleaser answer. I've spent my life conceding to the desires of others, I'm not really sure I even know what I want. And, if I don't know what I want, how can I possibly make a decision?

So, be patient with me, friends, if I'm hesitant in suggesting a coffee house in which to meet. Or if I can't even decide what time would be best. I'm learning how to weigh the options and actually choose (that's the dead air on the phone, in case you ever wondered). I am taking all kinds of new steps in this new season of life. Indecisive-less, here I come!

Beloved

It was 12:30 and I called my husband at work on my lunch break with the sob story of my day. He listened patiently, reassured me through my hyper-ventilating that my day was over soon and that he couldn't wait to see me. An hour later when I called back with a relocation proposal, to Africa preferably, I heard him smile over the phone and say, " Take a deep breath. Meet me at the train. I made reservations for 6."

I'm ashamed to admit that I sometimes take my husband for granted. He tells me that he loves me everyday. He calls me and texts me throughout the day to remind me that he's thinking of me. He cleans up after meals. He does all the laundry, for crying out loud. He provides and cares for me more than anything I've ever experienced before. I had thought that these things are just things that husbands are supposed to do. Wrong. My husband isn't supposed to do these things. He doesn't have to do these things. He does them because he loves me. He loves me in a way I am only beginning to understand.

I hear all the time from women who feel neglected, taken advantage of or taken for granted by their husbands. I have no idea what they're talking about. However, it's a good reminder of how blessed I am. How I need to acknowledge my loving spouse every day and make sure I'm not taking who he is for granted.

I would certainly elaborate, but, I have surprise plans for 6 with the most incredible, dashing man.

Reclaiming Autumn Part 2

Lazy Saturday morning.....a long, leisurely romp at the Farmer's Market....scrambled eggs with cheese and grits at our favorite greasy spoon for breakfast....a long drive into the country air....a sneeze-filled hay-ride into orchard acres....apples still wet with dew plucked from trees and placed in plastic bags....14 lbs of juicy freshness to be eaten raw or in pies or in breads or in muffins....cozy, candle lit dinner with family....happiness fulfilled. Autumn is mine.