Happy ... What Year Is It Again?
How are you?
My first resolution of 2009 is to think about you before I think about me.
Okay, now that that's out of the way,
Jan. 1:
I’m sitting on the couch, a cup of tea resting against the crook of my elbow. Is there a crook of my elbow? I just received an email from my dissertation advisor updating all of his former and current students about the recent success stories: E published a book, D received tenure, S published a book, had a baby, and received tenure.
Next to me, DH is telling me that I need to come up with a plan; he’s reading me excerpts from a writer’s magazine (one of three) that he purchased yesterday at Border’s. “Because I’m going to learn all about this!” he exclaimed on the way to our car.
“If you’re not going to come up with a plan, don’t do this, Darling.” That’s what he just said.
The thing about being a teacher is that it’s easy in a strange sort of way. Oh, it’s very difficult, too. But I have little choice but to act, to do, to pull myself together and, as DH says, come up with a plan. And when someone asks, “What do you do?” I can give them a beautiful little sentence: I teach.
Do I really want to take this plunge? Am I doing it so that someday, I can earn a line in one of my old advisor's email updates? “Sophierom published a trashy romance novel.” “Sophierom went into debt by self-publishing a fantasy trilogy.” “Sophierom spent her life in the corner of her sectional sofa, a cup of peppermint tea leaning against the crook of her elbow, if there is such a thing.”
I'm a less-beautiful version of a soap opera: you can miss a year's worth of episodes and nothing has really changed. But I am listening to the soundtrack to Henry V, so I feel like I'm not changing in a very heroic way.
Happy New Year, everyone! :-D
My first resolution of 2009 is to think about you before I think about me.
Okay, now that that's out of the way,
Jan. 1:
I’m sitting on the couch, a cup of tea resting against the crook of my elbow. Is there a crook of my elbow? I just received an email from my dissertation advisor updating all of his former and current students about the recent success stories: E published a book, D received tenure, S published a book, had a baby, and received tenure.
Next to me, DH is telling me that I need to come up with a plan; he’s reading me excerpts from a writer’s magazine (one of three) that he purchased yesterday at Border’s. “Because I’m going to learn all about this!” he exclaimed on the way to our car.
“If you’re not going to come up with a plan, don’t do this, Darling.” That’s what he just said.
The thing about being a teacher is that it’s easy in a strange sort of way. Oh, it’s very difficult, too. But I have little choice but to act, to do, to pull myself together and, as DH says, come up with a plan. And when someone asks, “What do you do?” I can give them a beautiful little sentence: I teach.
Do I really want to take this plunge? Am I doing it so that someday, I can earn a line in one of my old advisor's email updates? “Sophierom published a trashy romance novel.” “Sophierom went into debt by self-publishing a fantasy trilogy.” “Sophierom spent her life in the corner of her sectional sofa, a cup of peppermint tea leaning against the crook of her elbow, if there is such a thing.”
I'm a less-beautiful version of a soap opera: you can miss a year's worth of episodes and nothing has really changed. But I am listening to the soundtrack to Henry V, so I feel like I'm not changing in a very heroic way.
Happy New Year, everyone! :-D