wading

Indeed, the first cold of the year has leveled me to the point of toting a box of Kleenex around, my security blanket, my nose raw, chapped, and my head fuzzy. I have been keeping up appearances at school, mainly because I do not want to use any of my sick days, especially not so early in the game, but also because we are at a wonky week (homecoming) and in need of attention spent on curriculum. I don't think staying home will improve my chances of getting better, in other words.

In other words, I am here, Kleenex and all, greeting my students at the door. Reading in the hallway: yesterday was Chelsea Whistle, but then I felt self conscious about all the swearing and blatant sexuality, I felt a bit exposed reading this in front of students and colleagues, so I have returned to Jane Hirshfield and After, though reading poetry in the hallways isn't the wisest choice. Carolyn Forche told us we ought to read a book of poetry cover to cover in one sitting; I find that I need to digest and focus. Poetry isn't for the hallways always.

It's fall now, and I'm in the thick of teaching, and I'm pretty content with it. Some days I get a little anxious with planning, since all of this is so new, but I think I'm doing OK, considering it's three new preps with all the attached difficulties. My best friend turns twenty eight very soon, and another very lovely friend of mine had a birthday (which I missed, but will send a belated package--so sorry, Nikki) and we're all getting older. I don't know what it is, but when I think about my favorite people turning a little older, I don't mind following suit. I'm settling in, getting comfortable. I'm looking at my thirties, which are only a few years away, and I'm thinking it won't be so bad. And now, blessed, snot filled, and content--here I am.