I believe itâ€™s time for a little reflection on the changes wrought by my return to teaching.
I suppose I could write a helpful how-to post on successfully juggling multiple jobs, multiple small people, and one LCB with multiple issues.
But that would make LCB laugh, long and hard, so we wonâ€™t go there.
I suppose I could write a post on the state of education today now that Iâ€™m back in the trenches.
But, frankly sometimes itâ€™s hard write anything scholarly while sitting in a trench. Plus, most of my energy goes into ducking, covering, and wiping mud off my face, which doesnâ€™t really put me in a scholarly mood.
I suppose I could write something at least somewhat meaningful, like One Teacher, One Â Child.
But, nothing really meaningful is coming to mind, so instead, Iâ€™m going to discuss the elephant in my personal room.
Because itâ€™s time.
Itâ€™s time to discuss the footwear of a schoolmarm.
Basically, Iâ€™m shooting for a Pulitzer with this one. So, here I go.
Before I returned to teaching, my regular footwear looked very much like this:
For social events, I often wore shoes like this:
I purchased this particular pair several years ago, when LCB was in graduate school in Chicago. We were living on our island at this point, but LCB decided to add a whole new dimension of excitement to our lives by returning to school in Chicago for a weekend graduate program. Thus, we spent large parts of that year back in Chicago. One fall weekend, we had a cocktail party to attend at the Swissotel downtown, so I wore these shoes with black pants and a blouse. After picking up the babysitter near where we were staying in the suburbs, I walked a few blocks to catch a train that was headed downtown. Upon arriving in the city, I got off the train and boarded a watertaxi that took me down the Chicago River. I got off at a stop near the Swissotel and began walking. LCB met me halfway between my stop and the hotel, having just finished his classes that day. Naturally, I looked and felt spectacular, and had a wonderful time engaging in riveting conversations with everyone I met. Several people complimented me on my shoes, noting their strikingly red underside.
(The last two sentencesÂ are total lies; by the time I reached LCB, I was trying not to visibly stagger, my back and feet screaming with pain. I spent the entire party trying not to look stricken, clutching the nearest wall with one hand and my wine glass with the other. No one noticed the red bottoms of my shoes because they werenâ€™t red, but I did leave the T.J. Maxx price tags on the bottoms for effect.)
For date nights, I wore these:
(I lie yet again. One, what exactly constitutes a date night once small people arrive on the scene? Because Iâ€™m not sure if Iâ€™ve had one that would technically qualify, at least not since the initial small person somehow morphed into small people anyway. Two, if you look closely, youâ€™ll notice a thick layer of dust on the shoes, the kind that takes years without disturbances to fully mature.)
This summer, LCB even bought me these:
(This part is true. However, itâ€™s also true that a day of teaching in these brings me a family-style side dish of Sweet-Mercy-I-may-never-walk-again-or-experience-joy along with the compliments.)
So it was with grim resignation then that I purchased these,
Iâ€™m trying to tell myself that Iâ€™m redefining sexy when I wear them.
(This is yet another lie; the truth is they make my feet look like duck feet. Also, it almost feels as if Iâ€™m developing a pseudo-waddle when I wear them.)
Oh, yeah. Iâ€™m bringing duck-feet sexy back.
Itâ€™s coming back with a vengeance.
(This is the biggest lie in this post and possibly the world.)