An Inauspicious Start–But At Least There Were Comic Books
Thanks for all the birthday wishes.
It was actually a kind of inauspicious beginning to my 36th year: I chose to work, rather than follow the tradition of declaring my birthday to be a personal holiday. But, after two weeks of unpaid vacation, the paycheque was enough of a present. So I took a grade 7/8 assignment at a school on the other side of the city.
It was only a one bus commute, but it meant literally riding the bus from one terminal point to the other to get there. In order to get to work on time, I had to be on the 7:53 bus. Before that, I had to get myself and The Ladies up and out the door, drop them at the sitter’s, then walk the 15 minutes to the bus stop. And, since we’ve been pretty much housebound for the past week or so, I also had to pick up bus tickets at some point along the way (actually, at the variety store down the street from my house, since it’s the only place along this circuitous route that sells them).
I set the alarm for 6:30, and double checked to make sure it was AM before I went to bed. 6:30 would possibly be cutting it a bit close, given our detour, but it was still my birthday, and no way was I getting out of bed before then.
At 7:19 I shot out of bed, hauled The Ladies out after me, and began a mad scramble to make the bus.
At 7:44 I kissed The Ladies goodbye–thank goodness for babysitters who provide breakfast–and took off for the bus stop. I didn’t think I had a hope in hell of making it, but I was determined to try (that way I wouldn’t feel guilty about wussing out and spending the $20 for a cab).
I did catch the bus, after a hail mary sprint, but at 7:54 I remembered that I didn’t stop for bus tickets. Sweaty and dishevelled, with a hat hiding my uncombed hair, my makeup tucked into my bag for application in the staffroom washroom, and my skirt hiked up over my snowpants, I poured out my sad tale of woe to the bus driver. Who not only let me ride for free, he made sure to drop me at the best stop and give me easy to follow directions to get to the school since my map was conveniently sitting on my desk, and not tucked into my bag where it would actually be helpful.
Have I ever told you about grade 7/8? 7/8 is the ninth circle of hell. They are hormonal timebombs, either on the cusp of, or in the throes of puberty. They are cocky; exuberant in their entitlement and adorably infuriating in their misplaced sense of maturity. They are hardwired to challenge authority; their very identities depend, in large part, on separating themselves from authority of any kind, and showing their superiority over it. When it comes to supply jobs, there are few things more challenging than spending the day with a 7/8 class.
So, take the normal 7/8 vibe, and add in the just returned from Christmas vacation energy. Then, just to keep it interesting, imagine that this particular group’s regular teacher went off on maternity leave over the break. And that their new teacher had only been there one day before calling in a sub. Yeah.
And I had to teach art. I hate art. At least I actually understood the math.
So, that was pretty much my birthday in a nutshell. That and adjusting to this whole 35 thing. It still doesn’t feel right. Like a pair of pants that don’t quite fit. They’re the right size and the right cut, but something is just a bit off and they chafe. I guess I just have to break it in a bit.