A Day in the Life

A Day In the Life

The alarm rings at 5:30. I feel like a diver that has gone too deep and can’t find her way to the surface. It can’t possibly be time to get up. But it is and no amount of complaining is going to get me any more sleep. I fall out of bed. In the shower I go through my usual litany of questions: “Why am I up when even the birds are still sleeping ? Why does 5:00 seem like such an evil time to get up? Why should I care if my teachers stand outside in the cold waiting for me to show up and let them in?” But I care, I know I care, so I dry my hair, slap some color on my face and head in for coffee.
I have my usual half hour to gulp down some oatmeal and coffee and catch the train. I just hope that the Snoopster will stay asleep so that I don’t have to take him out and get his breakfast--but no luck. I hear him stretching in the hallway. Does this dog have an appointment that he has to go to that I don’t know about?
I get to the station just as the train pulls in, but happily I meet Harry on the platform. We get two seats together on a three-seater. As we sit down the woman near the window huffily moves her things so we can sit. When Harry and I begin to chat quietly she informs us rather nastily that this is the quiet car and we should basically shut up so madame can fume in silence. I am sorely tempted to whack her, but I behave, merely thinking evil thoughts about her during the ride. After such a rotten start I have the sinking feeling that this day is going to be a doozey.
The walk to school is blessedly uneventful and I begin to think that everything will be okay after all. I unlock the door and see that our classroom water cooler needs a new bottle, so I begin the process of hefting it onto the cooler. After I turn the bottle over I notice that there is a crack in the bottom. Suddenly I hear a loud whoosh and then a furious flow of water. I watch horrified as a flood runs down the sides of the cooler and onto the floor while a hissing noise signals that something may be burning.
I decide not to panic. I pull the bottle off, throw it in the trash and unplug the cooler. I am now as wet as the floor. I rethink my former decision and decide that panicking may be the thing to do. This is a mess that paper towels won’t handle. Thank goodness I have the custodian’s number and Kevin, bless him, is there in five minutes with his mop. My knight in shining flannel. I pray that the water hasn’t caused a short in the electrical wiring.
In the middle of this mess, as Kevin mops and I wipe as fast as I can, my GED teacher arrives unexpectedly early. He stands there cluelessly, looking like he’s about to step over Kevin and into the room. I inform him that if he wants to live another day in my school he should make himself scarce for a while. I flee to my office, take out my tiny hair dryer and begin drying my skirt and sweater, desperate not to go through the day soaked to the skin. Yes indeed, blow drying yourself at 7:30 in the morning is a great way to start the day.
Kevin puts another bottle on the cooler (at this point I’m ready for a bottle as well, and I’m not talking about water) assures me that the day will get better and leaves me with a nice clean floor. I’m still damp but at this point I don’t care anymore.
It is now 8:30 and I have two minutes before the hoards descend. I gulp my coffee wondering whether I shouldn’t just pour it over my head for maximum caffeine effect and slap a smile on my face. By 10:00 a semblance of peace has descended—or at least until the students in my GED class decide that they’ve had it with their teacher and begin a revolution.
My assistant, Lalitta and I can hear them telling him that he needs to get organized; that they’re tired of doing the same lesson over and over because he’s forgotten what he’s taught, and they don’t want to learn words like “pentathlon” because when were they ever in their lifetimes going to use them?!!
Quietly agreeing with my students, I wish that I had thrown him into the river that was the classroom this morning and ended all of our suffering. I have spoken to him countless times about his teaching but he’s very courteously not having any of it. This is one teacher who will not be returning next year, Harvard degree and all.
The rest of day slowly slides downhill—the copy machine dies, we lose our heat, our lights go out. Somehow I get through it and go home to crawl into bed. Thankfully it is Friday—perhaps on Monday we will have heat, lights and a copy machine. Then again Haley’s comet may show up as well. I remain optimistic.