Cheaters: A Sign of Our Times

I'm not talking here about students who think it's okay to copy their friends' homework ("it's only homework") and think I don't see their cell phones coming out of their pockets and onto their laps during quizzes and tests--although those are also both signs of the times, particularly the latter. Nor am I talking about people being unfaithful in their marriages. Or diets. I'm talking about reading glasses.

At my 30th high school reunion recently, the only difference from the 20th reunion really was all the cheaters in the room. (Here, more than one definition of cheater may apply. I'll never know.) Everyone looked the same to me as they did at the 20th reunion, but I saw more reading glasses coming out of suit pockets, worn on heads, and sitting at the ends of noses than I did ten years ago, before we turned forty.

One by one, everyone in my life over forty has started to wear cheaters. When I'm among people I don't know, it has become the way I spot forty-somethings: husbands and wives sharing cheaters at dinner to make their menu choices. I spy someone over 40!  Especially amusing to me is the dance of denial (vanity?) when I see someone try to read the menu sans glasses, only to give in and ask to borrow someone's cheaters when they discover his or her arms are not long enough to see where the appetizers end and the entrees start.

Finally, a safe topic related to aging--other than maybe blood pressure and cholesterol meds--that is okay to discuss among acquaintances. All that other stuff that's going on? Yeah, better left for conversations with close friends and family.

Or a semi-anonymous blog.

My Week in a Word: Erratic

After a weekend of fun, family wedding celebrations, I began my week tired. But I was happy. And hopeful. I giggled and smiled a lot.

By midweek I was distracted from giddy hopefulness by stress...And I began to feel doubtful. Skepticism set in as fatigue returned.

This afternoon I felt disappointed and a hint of embarrassed.

Tonight I am simply sad and discouraged.

I know, I'll bounce back. But tonight I'm not in the mood to try.

As*holes Among Us

Mondays are always difficult, in part because Sunday nights I have trouble sleeping, but today was especially stressful. I won't be in on Friday because I'm taking a personal day--the one personal day I get all year--for a family wedding and I'm already worried about my lesson plans. I'm certainly looking forward to the wedding. The lesson plans? Not so much. It is definitely easier to be in school than to stay home.

Anyway, I felt super stressed today. And I didn't bring lunch (my own fault) (wouldn't have had time to eat it if I did), so I decided to go out after school. Since I can finally travel north to Springfield now that the Big E is over, I decided to go to one of my favorite places (that shall remain nameless but is near the Basketball Hall of Fame and is one of 10 in a greater Hartford restaurant group).

My choice of bar stool was somewhat limited since I arrived at the tail end of extended business lunches, but I was okay with my seat. I eat out often, and often alone, so I feel practiced at the art of small talk--when required.

My goal was chicken Milanese with arugula salad after a lemon drop martini; it was not to talk to the three businessmen to my right. But when they asked the bartender what she was shaking for me, and she said, "lemon drop," I decided to add "or 'Monday Medicine' as I prefer to call it"--both to break the ice and let them know I could hear their conversation. "Hahaha," they chuckled. Mission accomplished,

My late lunch/early dinner proceeded without out incident.

For a little while.

Then the bartender decanted their second bottle of wine.

(Read: then the douche bags ordered another fancy bottle.)

So while I enjoyed my meal and a glass of wine, I got to hear stories that included words and phrases like "dirty hippies," and "she was hot, but her sisters are like double wides." And, "oh yeah, my cousin would call me to take her fat friends to the prom."

Yeah. From the "dirty hippies" judging man who was wearing a version of a (more) salt (than) pepper, crispy, gelled mullet that he apparently thought compensated for the receding Widow's peak.

They finished their second decanted bottle and asked the bartender for advice on how to proceed. More wine, they wondered? Or eXpresso martinis? She steered them toward another bottle of wine, which steered me against ordering another glass.

As I finished my wine and took care of my tab, I vented my disgust via text messages, instead of saying this before I left.

Clearly cuff links don't confer class. And if you were half as worldly as you think you act, you'd know that it's eSpresso, not eXpresso....Dirty hippies? really?! Hmmmm...jealous you didn't have the balls to resist "the man" in your simple, bourgeois lives and gave it all up for those cuff links? And those poor fat girls you had to suffer through dates with? I sure hope they have voodoo dolls and pluck the rest of your ridiculous mullet hair by hair, and that they time it perfectly so that the last one goes the same day I hope your tiny little dicks fall off.

Cheers. Have a good night.

My Week in a Word: Overwhelming

Unfortunately, overwhelmed is the new normal these days, so I have to get used to it.

Thank goodness for weekends.

My Weeks in a Word: Preoccupied

I don't want to be one of those bloggers who makes more excuses about not writing than actually writing, but I feel I can't ignore the fact that I haven't written a single word or uploaded a photo in two weeks. I have been busy back at school, and therefore also tired, while trying also to do some fun things when I can, but I need to make a better effort to get to the page. I need to tell you about some things while they are fresh on my mind--while I'm still enchanted, or annoyed, or amused, or horrified. And I need to feel okay about reminiscing here as well--because looking back can bring back some of those same feelings.

And every once in a while, when I need to reboot, I need to feel okay about that, too.

My Week in a Word: Painful

It hurts to be back at school. Physically. So, literally, I suppose. Only I hate to use that word since I hear it misused so often. Most people I speak with can't tell a story without using it. For example, said type person (most all Americans these days) would have said "there are literally people who can't tell a story..." But I digress.

I am reminded daily when I write on my white board that my rotator cuff issues are not completely resolved, although I am much better than I was about a month or so ago. I would I am say 85% improved. I don't want to cry in the morning when I reach back to hook my bra, but I do wince a little when I fill my coffee maker with water. And when I write on the white board at school. But even then the pain is dwarfed by the bursitis in my hip.

By end of the day I would rather have another embarrassing first period sweating episode (akin to a hot flash but brought on by the stifling humidity in the building), during which I always feel like an SNL parody of myself, than hobble in hip pain. Probably the worst moment of my day is when I get to go home, and the lateral movement of my right leg required to get in the car begins an excruciating ride home to where I can rest.

But it's the weekend now. A well-deserved weekend. No sweating, wincing or hobbling allowed.

Catching Up, Moving Forward

I have been remiss. I didn't report last weekend that my week (in a word) was jarring. Getting back to school after summer vacation is always a rude awakening. This year it was particularly shocking. I hadn't been home from the west coast for a week before reality closed in around me and my alarm clock and coffee timer were back on. Really early.

But I'm over it. No more whining. After all, this is my life. It is what I do. I teach. And, as much as I struggle with saying this because it seems to fill all the spaces even when I'd rather it not: I am a teacher. So for the seventeenth time around I will attempt to give this school year and my students my best. I will give it my best, but I hesitate to say I will give it my all--because I need for it not to leave me empty.

I want to be a good teacher; really, I do. But I want also to be a good friend, and daughter, and sister, and aunt. And this year I want also to be someone's sweetheart again. And I want to be a writer. I want to be more adventurous. Creative. Spontaneous. Available. Grounded. Healthy. Happy.

May as well start by being ambitious.