I have a confession: When Ella gets on the bus at 7:19am, I usually go back to bed. Okay, I almost always go back to bed. Shit. Always. I always go back to bed. My phone even knows to alarm me so I can get Amelia to school on time.
I’ve been all wrapped up in several book series, most of which are Young Adult. I’m not embarrassed. Okay, maybe a little. I tried to read a non-YA book and it took me a week of stops and starts. Adults are way too complicated. I much prefer the simple “I like him does he like me; OMG there’s a killer vampire” storylines that appeal to teenage girls.
Let’s just call it prescreening. You know, for that time in the not too distant future (name that theme song!) when my littles will have their noses stuck in various and sundry steamy teen romance novels. I always consider myself lucky that my own mother wasn’t much of a reader and didn’t bother to pick up some of the paperbacks I found in my grandma’s back bedroom. (Some of those romance novels are thinly veiled erotica rags.) (Thus was the beginning and the entirety of my sexual education.)
The gist of this is that I stay up far too late reading. Life as I have always known it has ceased for the most part. Only recently have I ventured past city limits for a reason other than my weekly trip to the library. Notice that I’m not mentioning the gym.
Let’s not talk about that. Please. It’s been a whole week without it and I already feel squishier. Granted, I’m working again. Sort of. I’m volunteering my time to pull flies for A Christmas Carol again this year. It’s a pain in the ass to find a babysitter all those nights (and somewhat expensive for a volunteer gig) but totally worth it. My triceps aren’t squishier that’s for sure.
I’m still in a funk. I thought it was seasonal but it might be something more. I have a near constant low-level frustration and maybe even anger. And it’s not going away.
Maybe I thought things would be different after three plus years.
I feel like there is so much I want to do and either the drive is gone or what I want to do is not possible, either logistically or financially. And then there are the things that are out of my control.
I have applied to Grad school. I have been kicking it around since summer and I finally did it two weekends ago. It’s a four semester fast track program for people who already have a BA. After four semesters I will have a teaching certificate for secondary education. I’ll be able to teach anything in the language arts field: literature, creative writing, drama, speech and journalism. I’m not so sure about the journalism thing. I can copy-edit the crap out of an article but I don’t think I could show someone how to power up a Mac much less do a page layout. Oh well…the other fields are a natural for me.
Part of the application process is providing a writing sample (250 words) stating why I want my teaching certificate.
Yeah. About that.
I’m going to go ahead a guess that “It fits in my kids schedule” isn’t an acceptable answer. Nor is “I’ve never had a pension” and “I’m tired of paying for my own crappy insurance.”
I suppose that I should talk about my “scope of practical knowledge” and “life experience”. Or some such.
I’ve taken the first step. I’ll write their essay. Eventually. I’ll find 3 people to write a letter of reference. (I know of two and need to find a third.) I’ll arrange to have my transcripts sent. I’ll go for an interview.
I feel like this is the right thing to do. I’d say that this is for me but that’s not true. Not entirely. I’d like to be a useful contributor to society again. I’m tired of living like this, afraid every time the van clanks funny and sticking cash into an envelope for late in the month trips to the grocery or doctor co-pays long past payday. I hate that. It can’t be helped at this point, not without professional intervention. The only answer is to get off my ass and get a job.
If it plays out right, I will be in my very own classroom the same fall that Amelia starts Kindergarten. See? Just like I planned it. Sort of.
This? Is not going to be easy. I suspect I will come through it just fine. I feel like I know what I’m doing. It’s the logistics that are dragging me down but, as I’m fond of saying, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.
In the meantime, I’d really like to not feel like I’m being sat on all day. I mean that figuratively. There was a time when somebody was always on me. Now, they use their words (whiny and demanding by late afternoon) to attract my attention. I just have this feeling in my chest, a tightness, that isn’t going away. It’s not a physical thing. Physically I still feel healthy and strong. No, this is something much more sinister.
And it just isn’t going away.
Everywhere I turn, I am reminded of what I don’t have. And I’m not talking about a new car or a bigger tv. You and I both know that I am not talking about anything material at all (although it would be nice to have something under the tree that I didn’t pick out/purchase/wrap for myself).
The feeling isn’t going away. And I’m not sure I can get past it to even enjoy what I do have.