Post by Kadina on Jul 2, 2012 12:16:16 GMT -6
I was kind of in that writing mood. Very informal so don't expect anything fancy, but it gives a little background into the life of your administrator, so I thought it'd be fun to share
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It's funny how after 13 first days of school, I still can't sleep peacefully the night before. I think it's just too exciting. Maybe we take it for granted. How could it not be thrilling to go to bed knowing that the next day your life will be different, surrounded by new people you've never met with stories you've never heard. It's exciting. It's a change, and though it's just another routine, it's new. And even routines are never quite the same. Something happens every day that sets other days apart. You learn something new, meet someone new, or experience something new. That's thrilling to me, I guess.
However, I had some doubts. For one, I took this class in high school, so how much would I really be learning? The most I could hope for was new literature to delve into. Something I could really analyze or grow from. I think that's what I've always appreciated about my literature classes and why it's still my favorite subject.
I tossed and turned all night and dreamed of all the possible ways my first day of class would go. I dreamt of people I'd never met before and what their laughter sounded like. That probably sounds a little creepy, but I swear it's just a quirk. I love people's laughter. It blows my mind how many different ways it can sound yet it all communicates the same thing. It's perfect. Some things are just universal like that. Music, math, the laws of nature. So is laughter.
I woke up before my alarm and decided there was no use trying to sleep. I went through my usual low-maintenance routine of simply washing my face, brushing my teeth and hair, and dressing into some casual clothing, capris and a purple v-neck. I didn't bother with any makeup. I've always hated the way it feels. Still, I wear it on occasion. This, however, was community college; definitely not an occasion worthy of such discomfort, so I skipped that step and instead braided my hair in a simple fishtail that hung limply from my right shoulder.
Appearance being out of the way, I went downstairs with time for breakfast.
When I was growing up, my family always ate together in the mornings. My dad assumed that was normal, but he's a baby boomer living life traditionally and never realized a family like ours was kind of rare. Mom would fix scrambled eggs and sausage and every single day, I never failed to leave a sip of orange juice before heading off to school. My parents would tease that I had some sort of psychological disorder, but I personally just didn't care for the foam that floated on top of that final sip. The pulp was another story. I can understand why people wouldn't like pulp. Maybe it gets stuck in their teeth or they hate the texture, but I love the irony of being able to chew your drink. So no matter how many hypothesis my family came up with for why I never drank the last sip, I could assure them it had nothing to do with the pulp that sometimes settled to the bottom.
After scrambling some eggs and sprinkling them with cheese, I ate generously while reading Leave Her to Heaven, a book I recently picked up from a local thrift store. I chose it due to two things: The publication date was really old and the pages were brown, smelly, and delicately antique. There's just something about that, like it's an artifact from some sort of time capsule. And also because there was no plot synopsis which made the book a mystery by default. It just makes it more enticing when I not only happen upon it by chance, but also having to discover the story chapter by chapter never knowing where it's going to lead.
Deciding I should leave early to allow time for finding my classroom, I grabbed the keys and walked out the door. Miss Kitty rubbed up against my leg the second I stepped out. She purred and meowed and tried desperately to trip me up so I could stay and feed her, but I knew I had to go. I bent down and patted her on the head assuring her I'd be back soon.
I first started driving my junior year of high school. That year, however, my sister was a senior and demanded the liberty to drive us every morning. When my senior year had come around, she had already wrecked the car that I was suppose to drive, so I got stuck with our town and country minivan. The air conditioner was broken and miss kitty, shame on her, had some how gotten in and left the raunchy stench of her urine. The ceiling fabric is stapled to the roof, the auxillary is broken, and the windshield wipers are possessed. But you know what's weird? Other than the smell of cat piss which has thankfully faded out through the years, I kind of love that mini van. The broken auxillary keeps me grounded in musical terms, I guess. I love to drive one of the other vehicles and listen to my own chosen music, but sometimes it's good to listen to the radio, and appreciate the music that you don't always control. The music from a genre you've rarely given time to appreciate for whatever reasons or analyze why you do or don't like it.
When I started the van, my dad's and my favorite oldies radio station was already on. I couldn't help but shriek a little when I heard the intro to one of my favorite oldies “Brandi, You're a Fine Girl” so I sang along as I backed down the driveway keeping an eye out for the cat.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, the temperatures still a little cool, the sun was shining. Blah blah, all that cliché stuff. Sadly, this was the earliest I had been up all summer, except for the night we camped in my back yard using Ole Swagger Wagon (my mini van's high school nickname) as the tent. We dug out a fire pit and backed the van up next to it, popped the trunk, and covered its backseat emptiness with blankets and pillows. I could still smell some of the soot as I wondered how many people were up and about already.
I drove through town and hit the interstate reaching the campus in about 10 minutes. Of course, typically these things should happen to me, my possessed windshield wipers began swiping back and forth. People gave me funny looks as I drove pass seeing as it was a clear day unnecessary of my wipers. I just gave it a little washing fluid and let it go crazy since there was really no way to stop them.
After parking and finding my classroom, I could tell it was going to be an interesting 4 weeks. The first thing I noticed was that my teacher looked like Jamie Lee Curtis. She had the exact physique and facial structure, even the short cut hair. I took a seat next to a friend from high school and looked around the room. A very diverse class, no doubt. After the professor introduced herself and reviewed some policies on cell phone use and attendance, we went around the room introducing ourselves.
Many of the students came from different branches in the military. One girl (I think it was a girl) flew planes, another women was a veteran, and someone else was currently in training. There was a man studying meteorology. He wanted to be a storm chaser (Awesome!) He was very tall, almost too big for his desk, and looked like a warrior from some native american action film I had remembered seeing. Another girl, very peppy and outgoing, loved to smack her gum. Her manner of speaking seemed a little ditzy, but I wouldn't write her off yet. She seemed fun and outgoing. On the other side of the room, an older man introduced himself. He was from Morocco and was hard to understand, but I think he was in school for law.
After that, we filled out a form and ended class early. I stuck around to chat with my friend and buy my parking pass. The van was steaming hot when I got back to it. I rolled down the windows and hit the highway as fast as I could go then cranked up the radio to hear it over the blasting winds.
So far, I was hopeful. I was hopeful that the class wouldn't be a waste of time and that I would gain something from it. Even if just one friend. Sure, going five days a week would get pretty old, but it was only for a month. I looked down at the time on my dash and saw that it was 11:11. Being lame, I couldn't resist to make a wish as I sped home for a lazy day by the pool with my book and some fruit.
____________________________________________________________
It's funny how after 13 first days of school, I still can't sleep peacefully the night before. I think it's just too exciting. Maybe we take it for granted. How could it not be thrilling to go to bed knowing that the next day your life will be different, surrounded by new people you've never met with stories you've never heard. It's exciting. It's a change, and though it's just another routine, it's new. And even routines are never quite the same. Something happens every day that sets other days apart. You learn something new, meet someone new, or experience something new. That's thrilling to me, I guess.
However, I had some doubts. For one, I took this class in high school, so how much would I really be learning? The most I could hope for was new literature to delve into. Something I could really analyze or grow from. I think that's what I've always appreciated about my literature classes and why it's still my favorite subject.
I tossed and turned all night and dreamed of all the possible ways my first day of class would go. I dreamt of people I'd never met before and what their laughter sounded like. That probably sounds a little creepy, but I swear it's just a quirk. I love people's laughter. It blows my mind how many different ways it can sound yet it all communicates the same thing. It's perfect. Some things are just universal like that. Music, math, the laws of nature. So is laughter.
I woke up before my alarm and decided there was no use trying to sleep. I went through my usual low-maintenance routine of simply washing my face, brushing my teeth and hair, and dressing into some casual clothing, capris and a purple v-neck. I didn't bother with any makeup. I've always hated the way it feels. Still, I wear it on occasion. This, however, was community college; definitely not an occasion worthy of such discomfort, so I skipped that step and instead braided my hair in a simple fishtail that hung limply from my right shoulder.
Appearance being out of the way, I went downstairs with time for breakfast.
When I was growing up, my family always ate together in the mornings. My dad assumed that was normal, but he's a baby boomer living life traditionally and never realized a family like ours was kind of rare. Mom would fix scrambled eggs and sausage and every single day, I never failed to leave a sip of orange juice before heading off to school. My parents would tease that I had some sort of psychological disorder, but I personally just didn't care for the foam that floated on top of that final sip. The pulp was another story. I can understand why people wouldn't like pulp. Maybe it gets stuck in their teeth or they hate the texture, but I love the irony of being able to chew your drink. So no matter how many hypothesis my family came up with for why I never drank the last sip, I could assure them it had nothing to do with the pulp that sometimes settled to the bottom.
After scrambling some eggs and sprinkling them with cheese, I ate generously while reading Leave Her to Heaven, a book I recently picked up from a local thrift store. I chose it due to two things: The publication date was really old and the pages were brown, smelly, and delicately antique. There's just something about that, like it's an artifact from some sort of time capsule. And also because there was no plot synopsis which made the book a mystery by default. It just makes it more enticing when I not only happen upon it by chance, but also having to discover the story chapter by chapter never knowing where it's going to lead.
Deciding I should leave early to allow time for finding my classroom, I grabbed the keys and walked out the door. Miss Kitty rubbed up against my leg the second I stepped out. She purred and meowed and tried desperately to trip me up so I could stay and feed her, but I knew I had to go. I bent down and patted her on the head assuring her I'd be back soon.
I first started driving my junior year of high school. That year, however, my sister was a senior and demanded the liberty to drive us every morning. When my senior year had come around, she had already wrecked the car that I was suppose to drive, so I got stuck with our town and country minivan. The air conditioner was broken and miss kitty, shame on her, had some how gotten in and left the raunchy stench of her urine. The ceiling fabric is stapled to the roof, the auxillary is broken, and the windshield wipers are possessed. But you know what's weird? Other than the smell of cat piss which has thankfully faded out through the years, I kind of love that mini van. The broken auxillary keeps me grounded in musical terms, I guess. I love to drive one of the other vehicles and listen to my own chosen music, but sometimes it's good to listen to the radio, and appreciate the music that you don't always control. The music from a genre you've rarely given time to appreciate for whatever reasons or analyze why you do or don't like it.
When I started the van, my dad's and my favorite oldies radio station was already on. I couldn't help but shriek a little when I heard the intro to one of my favorite oldies “Brandi, You're a Fine Girl” so I sang along as I backed down the driveway keeping an eye out for the cat.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, the temperatures still a little cool, the sun was shining. Blah blah, all that cliché stuff. Sadly, this was the earliest I had been up all summer, except for the night we camped in my back yard using Ole Swagger Wagon (my mini van's high school nickname) as the tent. We dug out a fire pit and backed the van up next to it, popped the trunk, and covered its backseat emptiness with blankets and pillows. I could still smell some of the soot as I wondered how many people were up and about already.
I drove through town and hit the interstate reaching the campus in about 10 minutes. Of course, typically these things should happen to me, my possessed windshield wipers began swiping back and forth. People gave me funny looks as I drove pass seeing as it was a clear day unnecessary of my wipers. I just gave it a little washing fluid and let it go crazy since there was really no way to stop them.
After parking and finding my classroom, I could tell it was going to be an interesting 4 weeks. The first thing I noticed was that my teacher looked like Jamie Lee Curtis. She had the exact physique and facial structure, even the short cut hair. I took a seat next to a friend from high school and looked around the room. A very diverse class, no doubt. After the professor introduced herself and reviewed some policies on cell phone use and attendance, we went around the room introducing ourselves.
Many of the students came from different branches in the military. One girl (I think it was a girl) flew planes, another women was a veteran, and someone else was currently in training. There was a man studying meteorology. He wanted to be a storm chaser (Awesome!) He was very tall, almost too big for his desk, and looked like a warrior from some native american action film I had remembered seeing. Another girl, very peppy and outgoing, loved to smack her gum. Her manner of speaking seemed a little ditzy, but I wouldn't write her off yet. She seemed fun and outgoing. On the other side of the room, an older man introduced himself. He was from Morocco and was hard to understand, but I think he was in school for law.
After that, we filled out a form and ended class early. I stuck around to chat with my friend and buy my parking pass. The van was steaming hot when I got back to it. I rolled down the windows and hit the highway as fast as I could go then cranked up the radio to hear it over the blasting winds.
So far, I was hopeful. I was hopeful that the class wouldn't be a waste of time and that I would gain something from it. Even if just one friend. Sure, going five days a week would get pretty old, but it was only for a month. I looked down at the time on my dash and saw that it was 11:11. Being lame, I couldn't resist to make a wish as I sped home for a lazy day by the pool with my book and some fruit.