This break has been pretty good. I (tried to) relax (I found out that I really can't...). I got engaged and spent copious time with my fiance (who I still refer to as my boyfriend). I went to Philly and saw my best friend not once, but twice! I had a wonderful Christmas (even if one omitted the aforementioned engagement).
But now I have to go back to school.
I don't wanna.
This is the first time in the history of history that I didn't want to go to school. Even before I knew exactly what school entailed, I knew I wanted to be there. It's where the action was. When I was about to start kindergarten, my school district experienced a teacher's strike. I was five, so I wasn't entirely clear on the labor relations front in 1991 and I just assumed I was going to West Creek Hills Elementary on a fateful day in August, as promised. That didn't exactly happen. The district and the teacher's union debated (I can assume) salaries, benefits, and the like. And every day, I would toddle (five year olds toddle, don't they?) into my parents room and look at them with my big brown eyes that hungered to learn and they would tell me that I wasn't going to school. Crushed, I would return to my room, put that day-of-the-week pair of under-roos back in its drawer and place tomorrow's pair out with my first day of school outfit. Then I would toddle with Bunky and blankie in tow down to the family room and watch the 7 am installment of Sesame Street.
How long did little Megan Colleen suffer?
Over a month.
The strike was so long that they had to send the seniors in to school with non-union teachers so that they would graduate on time to attend any early college sessions and get applications in early enough. Finally, the strike ended and on September 30, 1991, I began school. As a side note, this story has an epilogue. When I was in high school, the AP history teachers hosted Trivial Pursuit Nights on Fridays and at the end of the year, they would roast the seniors. In my senior year, I was roasted and received 2 gifts. From my 9th and 11th grade history teacher, a fake Oscar. From my 10th grade teacher (who I attribute my American Studies inspiration to), a copy of Captain Underpants. At a parent-teacher conference, my parents told that little story about my days-of-the-week underpants to the aforementioned teacher and he never forgot. Thanks Mom and Dad.
Anyway, I don't know when I burned out, but I don't want to go back tomorrow. Ugh. Additionally, being engaged makes me want to spend even more time with Jason, so I miss him twice as much as I did before December 25th.
Only seven more months...
I'm peachy.
1 comment:
I found I didn't have honest-to-god senioritis until grad school. That last semester was Chinese Water Torture.
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