Friday the 13th : Monday Edition

Routines: gotta have them. If for no other reason than when half asleep your muscle memory knows how to turn the coffeepot on, do a few down dogs, twist & stretch. And when there are two routines and one small bathroom, the routines become more like choreographing a tightrope walker. A good routine, carefully and methodically implemented can keep a day together.

This is how it falls apart:

You went to not one, but two social events over the weekend. Normally, you spend most of your weekends trying to stay away from people. But, like shit, birthdays and reunions happen. And there is all kinds of things a lactose-intolerant Cohabitating Significant Other should not eat, but hey, he's having fun and who wants to be the finger-waggling voice of lactose doom? So the normal bathroom routine is disrupted. Showers pushed back. Toothbrushing delayed. Extra visits required. Someone knocks over a glass of water. And finally, you realize that it's going to be a Monday, and you're going to be late.

You get out the door and realize that while traffic is light, everyone in the cars ahead of you seem to be Old Retired Guys coming home from the gym. The guys who'll be in the hardware store later this morning, making those speedboat noises with their lips: "Pppptttt pppPPPttt." As you get on the expressway, you note the lovely shade of blues and oranges and single twinkling stars on the horizon. Yep, gonna be late.

You get to work and hey! not that late. As you're exiting your car, the plastic badge you wear, the one with the really unflattering photo breaks off. You get to your classroom and the kids are all standing outside. Class starts and it's plain that nobody has read the book. It's not even 8:00 yet.

Then, a kid gives you an envelope. It's got a thank-you note in it. "Thanks for helping me with my college essay. You helped me write the best essay I could." And a gift card for coffee.

After school, the creative writing group comes in. They are so sweet: Kira with stories about her Swedish Grandma; Harry who writes stories in haiku; Laura, who lights up when you break out the chocolate-covered espresso beans; Sarah, the little red-haired girl.

Make a list, you tell them. Ten Things. These are some of the results:
Ten Things I Hate About High School
Ten Things To Do After the Apocalypse
Ten Things I Wish I Could Have
Ten Things I Can't Tell You.

Ten Things I Hate About You:
1. You smell
2. You drool
3. You always have a runny nose
4. You drive too fast
5. You drive too slow
6. Your vocabulary
7. You always use the wrong form of "There," even when you are speaking
8. You are way better at math than I am
9. You never pay when we go out
10. You stare at me unblinkingly from inside the mirror.

Sometimes, I feel a little like giving up that creative writing group- it's a lot of work, twice a week, and it's like teaching another class. But then someone writes: "After the apocalypse, you can lie in the middle of the road and look up at a star."

And so you can. In 12 hours I will be back there, doing it all over again. Looking for that star.

Here's a poem, Dear Reader. Have a good Tuesday.

Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale

Dan Albergotti

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life’s ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.