I wrote a mildly idiotic email in response to a simple question.  And the email was to a boy.  I always feel more idiotic when I’m idiotic in the presence of the handsome.  Sometimes I try to convince myself this has something to do with feminism.

How long, he had quite naturally asked, do you imagine you’d like to keep up working at a church?

Then I busted out an only slightly shorter version this tale of my desire to be a middle school science teacher:  When I was in the 7th grade, my physical science teacher was unbearably dull.  I have frequently encountered him as an adult and have always found him to be a person of greater than average kindness and integrity.  He just wasn’t all that lively in his presentation of, say, facts about rocks.   Anyway.  Coach B would drone on and on about rocks every other day for an hour and a half.  And I would stare vacantly at the classroom’s skeleton.  I really wanted to put clothes on it.  And a jaunty hat.  I imagined myself a 7th grade science teacher, with my own skeleton.  I planned what I’d dress the skeleton in.   Feather boas.  Sequined things.  A detective costume.

My point was, I guess, that being interested in doing something doesn’t necessarily indicate that a) you’re actually suited to the thing in question or b) your reasoning isn’t completely ridiculous.

I still want a skeleton, by the way, and am consoling myself with a dressmaker’s dummy an elderly church lady will leave me in her will.

And I still am not quite sure what I’m going to tell MA about the whole job offer business.

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