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The Price You Pay for Indulging Yourself

Mondays…I don’t know a profession that’s fond of Mondays…

Teaching is no exception.

I stressed all weekend because I wasn’t confident in my lesson plans.

Though I knew what I wanted to accomplish, I had to wing first period.  No problem.  I’m a second-year teacher.  We second-year teachers are used to flying by the seats of our pants.

Second period…planning…parent conference time.


The parent didn’t show and, I’m fairly sure, she lied to me when I called.

I rescheduled for Tuesday…after wasting thirty minutes trying to track her down.

I’m tenacious.

Still, that put me behind.

I made copies and flew back to my classroom.  It’s funny how an hour and a half can go by in the blink of an eye.

By third period, my room looked like a tornado had hit it.

I despise disorder, but I cannot seem to dig my way out of it lately.

Third period came…oh my gosh.

This class, which used to be my favorite, has turned into my worst.

Classroom management issues are the problem.  I’m seeking the advice of my more experienced coworkers.  I’m also having students call home to read the scripts I blogged about before.

By fourth period, I’m wiped, and I don’t have a break in between.

Today, I got two new students in this class.

Welcome to my life.

After school, I had another parent/teacher conference.  It went well, but I spent the next hour and a half in my classroom answering emails and moving papers around.

Yes, I lead a most exciting life, don’t you think?

Though I wasn’t tired (I had gone to bed early last night and taken two naps this past weekend), I decided that I needed to indulge myself.

It was time to get my nails done.

I called to ensure that the place I like to go had time to take care of me without my having to wait.

It did.

I showed up ten minutes later ready to soothe away the stresses of the day.

And that’s when I realized that my indulgence would come at a price.

Folks, I got the chattiest male nail tech I’ve ever had.




This guy fancied himself the nail tech comedian.

I could only understand every three words he spoke.

I laughed when he laughed.

He could have been saying “Chicken poop” for all I know.

Oh, but he didn’t stop at jokes.

He proceeded to tell me about some American Idol singer he loved.  He’d just watched it on TV, he said.  I told him that he was watching reruns.


Yeah, the guy he was talking about someone from last year.

Oh no, he says, he just got kicked off.

Um…you’re talking about last year’s guy…the one whose girlfriend got in the car accident.

Oh, but the guy recorded some song, my nail tech said.

He then proceeded to play the song on his phone.


We did find something in common.

Two things actually.

The guy was born in 1970.

We like the same music.

I think.

He could have said “Chicken poop” for all I know.

His dislike for Not-A-Lady Gag Gag was a sentiment I shared.  I had no problem hearing, through his thick Asian accent, his dislike for that disgusting thing who calls itself a singer.

The other thing we share a love for?

Our children.

I think (“think” is the key word here) he has a daughter who attends a school across town.

Apparently, she’s quite smart, and he’s taken her to smarty competitions across the state.

I think he might have told me that people from Christian schools do very well.

I’m not sure.

He could have said “Chicken poop” for all I know.

Oh my, but this guy went on, and on, and on.

All of a sudden, I felt great empathy for my friends, family, and coworkers.

That must be what it’s like to be caught talking to me.

You can’t run.

All you can do is smile, nod your head, and hope you’re not agreeing with some comment I made about “chicken poop.”

For the record, all of my nodding and agreeing was not for naught, so to speak…

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