As a teacher, I can't wait until it gets here. Any teacher who tells you differently is either lying or has a screw loose. We all want the school year to end. We are tired. We are over tested. We are short on patience and even shorter on school supplies. We want to go home. All's well that ends.
Except it doesn't. June is filled with professional development and conferences. I fill in two weeks just disaggregating my test scores and analyzing root causes of the dips and spikes in the data.
I hate summer. I always bring home a lot of planning materials to make Martha-Stewart-flavored lesson plans (or Pinterest like for the younger crowd) for the next year, which I never touch for some reason, but it stares at me every day from the dining room table, feeding me guilt like a Thanksgiving feast. Maybe next year I will leave it all at the school.
I love summer. There is no better morning spent than the ones I can bring my coffee back to bed and read the newspaper. No morning rush to zip out of the driveway by 6:30 am. Brunch happens every day. Eat when I'm hungry; sleep when I'm tired. Best ever. Nothing to complain about. Except.
I hate summer. I never know what day it is; I don't mean date, like July 17, 2017; I mean day, like Monday or Thursday. It becomes disorienting. It's hot out, so I find myself binge watching Netflix, which further fogs reality, and then I never know what time it is; I don't mean time, like 2:30 pm; I mean time, like it's-dark-outside-2:30-in-the-morning-already? time. The dishes pile up. Laundry never gets folded. I can't remember the last time I vacuumed.
And then, there's the shower thing. If I don't get up and shower, like the usual start to my school day, then I can't go anywhere until I shower, which I don't want to do because I don't want to be wet. I look like the face of depression, but it's my usual summer look.
As I'm writing this, I'm thinking about something else. I look up and say to myself, "Who gives a crap?"
I'm really thinking about the "C" word. I can't even say it. The (insert F word with suffix -ing here) C word has entered-uninvited- into my family circle. I can't process it. I can't talk about it. I can't move or breathe. I want to stop time for a minute. I need a minute. Or two. To think. They throw the C word at you, but you have no way to respond. You get no protest or choice. Nope. I mean, can you joke about it? That's what I do when I'm uncomfortable. I joke about it. It has quasi worked for me for 53 years. What about now? I just get to sit here with it, wanting to beat it down like Mike Tyson. Fucking Cancer.
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