In Excess

Clearly, I cannot be trusted.

Let me clarify.  I can be trusted with lower-level things, like secrets. I can be trusted with curriculum development, teaching young sprouts to read and inciting activism in college students.

I can be trusted with things like car maintenance and paying my insurance (which, in the interest of full disclosure, is set to automatic bill pay, like my mortgage) paying my mortgage, and in keeping people safe if they ever have need of extra security.  I'm handy with sticks and knives and can shoot passably.

Likewise, I usually feed my dog, and trust me, he ain't starving.  Neither is the little potato-shaped friend of his that belongs to my room mate.  And Eleanor gets her medicine twice daily like clockwork, though admittedly, she has a team of three looking out for her: me, Grey and my friend Cathy who sometimes watches her.

No, I can be trusted with that stuff.

It is other things that quietly suck the willpower from me.  They are the kyptonite to my SuperWoman-ess.  Take ice cream, for example.  I cannot keep ice cream in the house.  Grey doesn't fully realize that yet, that if there is ice cream and it is designated "mine" that it will be eaten within a reasonable amount of time, like fifteen minutes.  He lets his JUST SIT IN THE FREEZER. For weeks!  Then it has to thaw for 30 minutes and then he eats a couple of spoonfuls. Pppthhh!  Amateur.  I take off the top off the carton the minute I get home and eat that tub for dinner.  It's a sight too, I reckon: drippings running down my fingers dripping into the sink because I eat most of my food over the sink, and occasionally snarling at the dogs as they attempt to beg for a bite.  Getting a ring around my face from sticking my whole head in to lick the sides.  That's how it's done, y'all. Not pretty, but real just the same.

Same goes for barbecue potato chips.  Pop a family size bag in the freezer and leave me to find it.  I dare you.  That Gollum-like creature in the middle of the night that smells like a picnic gone wrong? That's me pigging out on my precious.

This also goes for foods with salt and/or sugar in them.  Except for chocolate.  I'm not really a chocolate fan.  I'll eat it, don't get me wrong, but it's not my favorite.  I know.  Don't shoot.  I'm still a woman. And I'll do anything to get out of grading by doing other very important things.  Like writing a blog post. Or reading other people's blogs, like smartasscripple.blogspot.com.  Mike is hilarious and satirical and altogether irreverent.

Really what you cannot trust me with are caffeine and my husband.  The husband part I'll just leave alone as your guess is correct, but the caffeine part is flummoxing.

I have been drinking coffee since I was 11.  It's an aspect of my culture and my quasi-addictive nature.  We aren't talking a nice, polite, 2-cups-a-day habit either.  There have been times in my life when I have drunk 3-4 pots of coffee a day.  Pots.  Of strong coffee, not that cheap-ass 7-11 or Denny's brew.  Hot, black coffee.  Because I like it, that's all. I like coffee. It is freakin' yummy.  I thought for a time that if you cut me, you'd get half-calf.

I have tried to quit before too. Not because of health or anything, but because I don't like to be addicted to stuff.  I obsess over things: bits of music, the smell of coffee, the view from the pier in Seattle, laying my head on Grey's chest.  It's how my brain works. I like routine too. I like getting up and doing the same morning stuff because it reduces the need to think: make coffee, check email and FB, drink coffee, yawn, stretch, more coffee, yogurt, shower, teeth/hair/etc and out the door for adventures.  You know?  It's normal.  And I can occasionally skip any of those behaviors except for the teeth part.  I am ok with my addiction to a new toothbrush every month and awesome tooth paste. What I am not ok with is the need, every morning since I can remember, of having a cup of coffee.  For three quarters of my life.

When I tried to quit, I went cold turkey.  From two pots a day.  Had a headache for a month.  My personality flattened out as the incessant storm in my head raged and screamed and howled.  At work people tried to be supportive and we changed to decaf coffee.  I was cranky and even more sarcastic than normal.  For the sake of everyone, it was gently suggested on the fifth week that I had a cup of coffee already as nobody loved me anymore.

So I decided to wean off this time.  I got down to about a pot a day for a couple of years.  I don't like change.  Then half a pot, where I have hovered for even longer.  I took a deep breath and told Grey I'd like to quit coffee.  We spend a significant portion of our income on coffee and coffee products.  I have enough coffee cups to use one every day for a year and never touch the same one twice.  He is a little skeptical, though he knows I can do it. And he's great at the Pep Talk. Since he drinks stronger brew than I do, I wonder at his own ability to just say "ok" and be done with something.  Me? No soy una persona en la manana sin cafe.

Sunday, I had one cup at breakfast and one in the afternoon.  Monday, I just had one cup all day.  It was awful and I was tired.  Yesterday I had to teach and had one cup in the morning, vowing to make it all day again.  And then next week cut it to half a cup.

I made it until 2:15.  Fifteen minutes of teaching and I needed, not wanted, a shot of caffeine.  I gave in because I wanted to. Because I feared I wouldn't be a good teacher that day. Because I wanted a soda.  I drank half of it and tossed the rest.

I considered lying to Grey and saying that I had made it without coffee.  That was technically true, anyway.  But I just can't.  Lying is a slippery slope. So when we talked last night, I confessed.  At least I can be trusted with the truth- a responsibility I try to hammer in to my students.  At least I am not a hypocrite.

This morning, I took Charlotte in for a medical test that she had to have anesthesia for.  Got up at 6 a.m. with no time for coffee. Wouldn't matter anyway, I reasoned, since I purposely ran out.  I took her in and had time to kill, so I crossed to Braums and had an oatmeal and a weak cup of coffee.  I bargained with myself: don't drink all of it and have a cup of tea later.

And this tea is really damn good.  At least it's not an entire pot. Because you know I have to go grade some stuff and would like to be able to do so in coherent English.

I'll keep trying.

Week 3 - Bucking at the County Fair

This morning driving to work, I felt beat up, like I'd been bronco busting and zigged when I should have zagged.  My whole body hurt.  I didn't realize how much anxiety I would feel being in a public school. It's not because of the kids or the work, but because of the frightening similarities to prison that I feel panic sometimes coming on.  Only I didn't realize it until my friend Elissa pointed it out, and I almost got into some emotional trouble.

It's two week until I can move home, to my own house.  The lease is up on August 31 and then I can get back to my regular life.  I had had a rough day at school, with oppositional girls, and boys who could not for the life of them keep their hands and feet and hormones to themselves.  I had gotten into a stupid argument with my roommate and was driving to the dog park to go for a walk to clear my head when I got pulled over. Expired tags.  Couldn't find my insurance tag either.  Hadn't gotten the notice on my tags because I haven't been anywhere regularly since March.  I got a ticket, and as the officer walked away- after lecturing me- I rolled up my window and heaved great sobs over the sound of the audio version of "Hatchet" by Gary Paulsen.  Too strong a reaction, losing it like that.  I was just having a bad day and was going to clear my head with a walk when *wham* a bee sting in the form of Officer Stellar and his magic ticket-writing tablet.

It was a pain, a fresh pain I could identify, something I could point to and say "Life is unfair!" In retrospect, I can probably get that ticket reduced when I take my tag receipt in to pay the fine. But I needed to let off some of that steam that for some inexplicable reason I had been holding in. I had a good cry and felt heartily sorry for myself for about five minutes.  Then I went for my walk and went home.

The next day, I drove in to work by 7:30 a.m., and didn't get out of everything I needed to that was school and teaching related until 8 p.m.  I was dog tired and had been busier than a one-armed paper hanger. I stopped by Walmart and you know, the neatest thing happened.  I was walking into the store and a car stopped to let me pass.  I waved and smiled- it's how we Okie's do things. Courteous like that.  The two girls in the car pulled up alongside me and said "Hey, you look so cute! We like your outfit!" and I really appreciated that.  The greeter flirted with me; cute guy in a wheelchair.  I gave him my ten dollar smile. I love being flirted with by good looking men.  I was in a groove, digging through the produce like a champ.  I saw a big-ass bald and tall police officer in the store and had a passing thought: what if he saw my tags when he went outside?  Nobody is that unlucky. Sure as shit, I get out of the Walmart lot and the flashing blues bent my night backwards.

He walked up and said "License and insurance." I handed him my license and ticket.  I used my teacher voice too, telling him that I'd been working for 12 hours today and I would go to the tag agency just as soon as I could but since I'm a public school teacher this is the best I could do today.  I did not use my nice, sweet Okie smile.  I used my "I have taught in a fucking prison and am in a bad fucking mood. Back off" voice.  It does not have any sweetness or honey in it.  I may have scared him a little bit.  He looked sheepish and a little apologetic. And tears welled up in my eyes again.  He took off.  Didn't even run my license. I might have also come across as a little /crazy/ scary.

I posted this on Google+, and that's when Elissa pointed out that I was probably reacting to the stress of working with an oppressed population and that it would take time to adjust.  She knows this shit. She's a teacher too.

Of course.  I was just feeling a little crazy and stressed out. Recognition is big key to alleviating this kind of stress and thanks to my friend, I'm feeling much better already.

I'm going running more to take care of my body and reading and writing  to take care of my brains.  And tonight at the craft store where I went to buy school supplies, they gave me a 15% teacher discount.  I found some good deals for my classroom and a few crafty things to do myself.  I also got word yesterday that the state department will go ahead and do my Competency Review for my teaching certificate. I might even get paid this month. That would be nice.  I've been engaged working since late July and won't get paid at all until the end of August.  Who knows how that's going to go down? More anxiety, but for now, there is nothing I can do about it but hope it turns out alright.

I think my biggest challenge is taking care of myself emotionally.  I care about the crap that kids in poverty have to deal with and wish fervently that these things weren't happening to them.  I'm limited in the scope of what I can do and need to remember to also give myself a break. Public middle school is a lot like bull riding at the county fair.  You hold on for eight second, the ride is wild and there is a trick to it.  Whether you stay on or get bucked off, you're going to be sore at the end of the day.  If you aren't, you probably aren't doing it right.