Teaching. It's like a teeter totter for me. One minute I'm up, the next I'm down. One minute I feel like it is highly likely I will someday win Teacher of the Year, which I think means I will get a free trip to Disney World and a golden apple trophy and maybe even a brief story about me after the weather on the local news broadcast. But then the next minute I am extremely doubtful of my ability to even talk to children and am convinced I have corrupted the youth of America -- and not in a cool "rock 'n' roll" way. In other words, what am I doing??? Will someone please just tell me what to do so that I can do it and not think about it anymore? Half joking. But sometimes I simply want my brain to hush and instead blindly do as I'm told. My brain needs a massage. My brain needs a smoke break. My brain needs an all-expenses paid vacation to Disney World.
Next up! Stephen King! I'm reading him for the first time. Well, reading one of his novels for the first time. I have read On Writing, which was maaaaarvelous, and I used to read his column in Entertainment Weekly -- and I definitely read his tweets. And sometimes I even read his thoughts! It's strange, this telepathic communication I have with Stephen. Anyway, the decision to read 'Salem's Lot was entirely random. After reading even one page of a book, I become stubborn and have to finish it. Even if I hate it. I don't hate 'Salem's Lot. It is damn fun. I had forgotten how much I enjoy scary stories. That's all I read during my magical junior high years. And I would write spooky, fairly gruesome stories as well! I was really cool in junior high! No, I really was. (And I said it was "magical" because, as I believe I have previously mentioned, I was eating disorder-free for those three years. Just eatin' whatever the hell I wanted, whenever I wanted. Plus, I really liked the band Aqua and The Spice Girls and even, secretly, Creed.) But, yeah, Stephen King. Boooooo!!! Which brings me to my next subject...
...Booooobs. Boobs! I don't have them, but I think I used to? I used to have a butt as well. And my arms used to not be so sickly and veiny. Yesterday in my favorite 5th grade class, I took off my jacket. My noodly arms were exposed, dear reader(s), which prompted my favorite 5th-grader to gasp -- literally gasp -- and say, "Your arms! Your arms are so skinny!" She was shocked. It was pretty awkward, but I played it off, like, "Yeah, they've always kind of been this way. But that's why I'm getting more iron! I want to become stronger!" She later profusely apologized and said that she didn't want me to feel bad (I didn't -- sadly, I was almost a little pleased... Eff you, Ed!), that it was merely an observation. But she is right -- my arms are so skinny, yes, too skinny, and I should stop seeing that as some kind of badge of honor. It's not. It's sad. I am getting to the point where I realize I look sick and that I actually desire to look healthy and strong again. Big step.
Whoops! I wasn't going to talk about Ed. Guess he (she?!) is all that is on my mind lately. I hope that will change the further along I get in my recovery because I have a lot more in my life just waiting for my time and attention. A disorder does not define me. A disorder will not get me to Disney World. A disorder will, however, ultimately make me stronger if I am determined. And, dammit, I am.
Happy Saturday, darlings. Go outside and drink in the sun. You deserve it.
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