Location: The corner of my couch, curled on top of the unfortunate crease between the chaise and the long side of the couch, covered in an old green blanket that once lived on my husband’s childhood twin sized bed.
Teacher life is tough. I don’t know if I’d recommend anyone take up the profession. At least, I wouldn’t recommend a person become an English teacher. The sheer weight of the bags I brought home, full of things to finish grading and things to enter in my gradebooks before grades close tomorrow at midnight, was enough to set of the seat belt alarm in my passenger seat.
It’s a good job. I’m lucky to have it. I love my students and the things we talk about. My coworkers are among the best I’ve ever had. But I forget what it’s like to have a Sunday or evening where I don’t have to do hours of work. Teacher burnout is real. It happened to me once before, and I’m determined not to let it happen again, but it’s hard.
Work has been so busy that I haven’t had much time to write, and I really, really need to write. Not just because of this impending deadline, but because I don’t feel quite myself if I’m not writing. It’s 9:11 as I write this, and I should be getting ready for bed, but instead I’m determined to get some writing done. I sleep better afterward. What’s with that? My brother is a musician, and he feels similarly when he doesn’t have time to compose. Are creatives doomed to be dissatisfied?
I’m being a bit glum, and I apologize. The end of grading periods is the worst.
The good news is that the sun is staying up in the sky late each day, and it beams through the living room window at just the right hour between the time I get home from work and cook dinner. I love that time of day. The cat loves it too, which is what really matters.