7: 15 - Around this time, I realize, Kirsten would be waiting for me by the elevator, our high heels echoing in the dark, empty "big hall," unmuffled by the college pennants. We were rarely fully verbal until one or the other of us slunk across Comm Ave. to pick up coffee at Dunkin' Donuts. Instead, I'm scraping out the unused raspberry muffin batter the bakers left, then washing the bowl in cloudy water, letting warm sanitizer drip down my face and shirt as I hoist the clean dishes onto the drying racks above my head. I'm deep in thought, prayer even, as the water wrinkles the tips of my fingers.
9:00 - Last year, I would be in the middle of period one -- probably a brain frame or two on the whiteboard, probably at least one whiteboard marker dried out, probably trying to wake up a few sleepy sixteen-year olds leaning against the wall. Today, I'm wrapping lemon ginger scones in eco-friendly paper, and handing them over to salivating customers.
10:30 - Last year, period three begins. I'm standing at the doorway to room 203, shaking each kid's hand as she walks into the room. With some, elaborate routines have evolved. Salutes. Primitive daps. Mostly smiles. I remind one student about staying super-focused today, ask another about his weekend. Around this time a few days ago, a woman I recognized entered the store with her girlfriend. We used to be in a book club together. She asks if this is what I do now, if I'm not teaching. I confirm this. She says, "Oh. I'm sorry."
12:30 - I would be sitting at my desk right now. Or rather, at a table facing away from my official workspace (as I cannot work with my back to the open space). There would be a small pile of assignments haphazardly stacked on my desk, a scraped-together lunch (probably takeout from across the street) half eaten in front of me. There would be at least one other lion-hearted teacher within earshot, planning, processing, laughing. There would probably be swearing at the photocopier. Now I am standing in a narrow space before a long cutting board, frenetically assembling sweet potato sandwiches and turkey wraps for faces that are becoming familiar. I don't have to call John's name. I remember him. I know that this time of day, this ham sandwich will leave off the cream cheese. Got it. I'm in a zone, moving around my coworker like a dancer, grasping at tomato wedges and cucumbers without thought. If I make a mistake, there will be half a sandwich to throw away (or, more likely, foist upon a roommate); it will not translate into a frustrated child calling my cell at 10pm with questions.
5pm - I would still be at work... making photocopies, ravenous. Kirsten and I would be rushing each other out the door, trying to scheme up a justification for a beer or pizza run. We would rehash our frustrations, triumphs. The whole ride home would feel like a swift decompression or a slow high-five. Tonight, I am sitting on the green couch when she comes home. Though I showered after work, my wet hair is already completely dry. I'm wearing a tank top. No makeup. I'm laughing with another roommate, telling silly anecdotes from earlier years.
It's not better, exactly. Nor is it worse. It is change, though... needed change.
And we're ordering thai tonight. High five to that.
