Students,
You must forgive me today if I speak a little slower than usual, forget your name, or forget my own. I am sleepy. Actually not just sleepy, but in the midst of a constant battle with fatigue. I thought after a month of juggling daytime and evening work my body clock would have synched up and brought out the working professional in me. At least it could have given me something of a buzz in the mornings. Alas I was wrong. Instead I must now rely on fruit, coffee, and lightly slapping myself around the face just to get the brain ticking. But the worst thing is when I do actually make it back through my door at night I suddenly become wide awake and cannot for the life of me switch off and power down. I try to read but the words swim before my eyes. On occasion I head out into the night seeking solace in vodka and a spin with the regulars on the dance floor. But what if I were to meet a fellow insomniac? Right now the best he could hope for is some half-asleep gropage or, as with Saturday night, to wake up beside me on my kitchen floor, the bed being too far when finally my body gives up and zzzzzz.
Happily it seems employers aren’t noticing the bags under my eyes, the stifled yawning, or my staring off into space in a comatose manner. My day job is at a Christian girl’s boarding school. The English-speaking staff are beyond lovely, they chat and socialize, and can see I am trying. But I should be achieving more at this point and student marking is threatening to overwhelm my tired mind. Nevertheless classes are largely stress-free and the students are entertaining. They and I have fun together and the arctic temperature air conditioning keeps me chilly and alert.
On weekday evenings I rush across the city to the Grand Palace where my adult conversation classes require what amounts to a song and dance routine each time. For my new-age employers at the language school text books are out and FUN! FUN! FUN! is the idea. Do zombies feel fun? I can tell you from experience that no, they do not. My students genially play along but they, like me, are doubtless wishing they could be home with their slippers and a cup of tea…
So this is what I’ve turned into. A slave to work, a burned-out shell of my former self. And students, it’s you who do this to me. You whom I aim to please, titillate, and inform. You for whom I beat myself every day! Why did I choose this exhausting profession? Some days I close my eyes and search my ‘happy place’ for answers.
No comments? No questions? Good. Class you may be excused.
Homework: Go and get sick / burn down the school / cause a city-wide disaster that means everyone must stay in bed in the morning.
x Teacher
You must forgive me today if I speak a little slower than usual, forget your name, or forget my own. I am sleepy. Actually not just sleepy, but in the midst of a constant battle with fatigue. I thought after a month of juggling daytime and evening work my body clock would have synched up and brought out the working professional in me. At least it could have given me something of a buzz in the mornings. Alas I was wrong. Instead I must now rely on fruit, coffee, and lightly slapping myself around the face just to get the brain ticking. But the worst thing is when I do actually make it back through my door at night I suddenly become wide awake and cannot for the life of me switch off and power down. I try to read but the words swim before my eyes. On occasion I head out into the night seeking solace in vodka and a spin with the regulars on the dance floor. But what if I were to meet a fellow insomniac? Right now the best he could hope for is some half-asleep gropage or, as with Saturday night, to wake up beside me on my kitchen floor, the bed being too far when finally my body gives up and zzzzzz.
Happily it seems employers aren’t noticing the bags under my eyes, the stifled yawning, or my staring off into space in a comatose manner. My day job is at a Christian girl’s boarding school. The English-speaking staff are beyond lovely, they chat and socialize, and can see I am trying. But I should be achieving more at this point and student marking is threatening to overwhelm my tired mind. Nevertheless classes are largely stress-free and the students are entertaining. They and I have fun together and the arctic temperature air conditioning keeps me chilly and alert.
On weekday evenings I rush across the city to the Grand Palace where my adult conversation classes require what amounts to a song and dance routine each time. For my new-age employers at the language school text books are out and FUN! FUN! FUN! is the idea. Do zombies feel fun? I can tell you from experience that no, they do not. My students genially play along but they, like me, are doubtless wishing they could be home with their slippers and a cup of tea…
So this is what I’ve turned into. A slave to work, a burned-out shell of my former self. And students, it’s you who do this to me. You whom I aim to please, titillate, and inform. You for whom I beat myself every day! Why did I choose this exhausting profession? Some days I close my eyes and search my ‘happy place’ for answers.
No comments? No questions? Good. Class you may be excused.
Homework: Go and get sick / burn down the school / cause a city-wide disaster that means everyone must stay in bed in the morning.
x Teacher
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