Alive and Kicking. Ish.

I promise. I'm still here. The 10 mile Broad Street run on Sunday didn't kill me (though I did walk like a constipated grandma for all of Sunday afternoon and most of Monday because HOLY GOD I was sore). Even my Satire paper (which is now completed and turned in) didn't kill me. Though it did try its hardest.

Oh no. I'm still here. Except that I decided that subbing full time at an independent school in Center City would be the best way to recover from the last week of classes, two presentations, and a 27 page paper. OH AND that it would be the best way to prepare for the next 40ish pages of papers that still have to be written before my first year of graduate school is officially (and blessedly) OVER. Once again, I exemplify Good Life Choices.

Honestly, though, in spite of all the CRAZY, I don't regret my decision to teach this week at all. I've only been teaching for two days, I don't know these kids from Adam, and I don't know any of the faculty members, but y'all. I love it. I can't wait to be in a classroom of my own. But more on that later.

As excited as I am to be teaching this week, however, all of those times I was complaining about graduate school and how it is THE HARD and I am THE TIRED, etc. etc....well let's just say that graduate school + teaching full time = a completely new level of THE EXHAUSTIFIED. Mostly good exhaustified , but still...working all day and then coming home and going to the library at night (ok so I've actually only done this today, but still)...I don't know how people teach full time and go to graduate school. I would probably/definitely die. Or just be really, really bitchy. Probably/definitely the latter. Preston would probably/definitely attest to this deduction.

ALSO, this whole schedule of negative eight minutes of free time = a new level of apartment grossness. Example: in order to find real, live, adult clothes to wear to teach, I had to try on every item of clothing in my closet. Naturally. This meant that every item I didn't choose to wear (i.e. everything except for ONE outfit) ended up in a pile by my dresser that is now two feet high and probably/definitely covered in dog hair and bone drool. EXCELLENT. So this morning, I was looking for a pair of nude pantyhose to wear with my black skirt because apparently May is having an identity crisis and thinks it is March and all of my cute sundresses have been made redundant and my dark clothing is making an unwelcome comeback. So anyways, pantyhose. Couldn't find any clean ones, so what's a girl to do? Not find a new outfit, of course, but dump out ALL OF THE DIRTY clothes on the floor in front of the bed (next to my pile of adult-like clothing rejects) and search for a dirty pair of pantyhose. Which I then found (in the dirty clothes) and wore. Because I am gross. Also because I just own one pair of nude colored pantyhose because SOMEONE (HINT: her name is Ness) thinks that nude colored pantyhose make a delightful afternoon snack. Almost as good as used tissues and ballpoint pens.

So anyways, moral of the story (sort of, and by sort of I mean not really): whenever I have to dress like an adult, chances are high to even higher that I'm wearing something a) dirty, b) wrinkled, c) that has served as a cushion for Ness' bone chewing endeavors, d) that is covered in black dog hair and blonde dog hair, rendering the dog hair visible NO MATTER WHAT! (note to future self: only own dogs of one color. you will be able to get away with a lot more dog-hair covered pieces of clothing. also, swine flu is happening now. crazy! love, present self)

And that's all I've got. Happy May 5th!