So it occurred to me that for the past thirty-five years, my concept of a year begins in August and ends in July. Thirteen years in public school, four in college, and now I enter my nineteenth year as a teacher.
Figuring in the time it takes to break down a classroom at the end of the school year and set one up in August, I still have about eight or nine solid weeks of vacation. A seventy day weekend. And due to my writing, I can guiltlessly decline to teach summer school every year.
On top of all that, my wife is also a teacher. And my daughter is still in school, so I can spend time with them. Which is a good thing, because I think Sandra would divorce me if she had to work all summer and I didn't.
But a work-free summer is not all fun and games! I mean, think of the reruns we have to endure. And when you go to look at your favorite website and realize that they're not updating it today because it's the weekend. God, will Monday never come?
Or when you realize it's actually four in the morning and your sleep schedule is so wonky that you're not even tired, but there's no one to chat with because so few of your friends are teachers. I get surprisingly little sympathy from them about my woes.
But before you know it, it's August again, and I have to put my four different classrooms in order (a library and computer lab in two schools). And now I'm back in the game, saying things like 'use your inside voice' and listening to politicians who could never manage a classrooom telling us how we're overpaid.
But nine months later I can start devolving into a monkey person, as I've done ever summer since Jimmy Carter was president.
In conclusion, neener neener.