solitude

When I was in college, I never ate in the dorm cafeteria alone. If my friends weren't around, I just wouldn't eat. I thought people would look at me if I went in alone, I didn't want the attention. I preferred to scavenge in my dorm room for salsa and chips or make some gross grilled cheese on a hot plate until my friends got back. Generally, I think of myself as gregarious; I find it easy to strike up a conversation with a stranger. But years ago, even though I had plenty of friends, I was hesitant. I came to New York for an internship after college for that exact reason - to face my fear. In New York I was forced to do everything alone. Movies, museums, walking dozens of blocks to work, eating in restaurants, reading in a park. All of these things were so new to me. It was a metamorphosis. Not easy, of course, but I learned to love being alone.

As time went on, like anyone else, I learned and grew and tried new things and got other jobs and went to grad school. Each time I thought that something was a little scary, I would try it anyway. None of these things were monumental, but to me I felt the steps forward until it was easy for me to live my life full of people and activities and places and travel. City life seemed like an obvious choice.

I have been reading Cormac McCarthy books obsessively since the beginning of the summer. The Border Trilogy is a series about cowboys in the 40's along the Texas/Mexico border. There are so many passages describing long solo rides through the dusty mountain passes, horses as their only companions. In a totally strange way, I have become attached to these characters, their quest for understanding and human connection. I know that I am not a lonesome cowboy breaking wild fillies in New Mexico, but I identify with the long, uninterrupted periods alone. I feel like I have adjusted so well to being alone, now instead of avoiding social situations because I feel afraid of connecting with people, I choose to be alone because I'd rather go solo. But not only that, I desire a chance to live in a place where there are no people. I want to be surrounded by land and trees and animals, staring out into the wilderness, spitting on the ground, wiping my brow, eating all of my food in a tortilla and letting my horse drink out of my hat.

Then I go outside and there are a million people walking down the street, hovering next to me in the grocery store and taking all of the benches in the park. I have no vistas to gaze and ponder, save a crowded cityscape of huge buildings. I don't mind being alone in public anymore, but I'd like it better if I was alone with a little less population.

"you teach best what you most need to learn"

One week ago today, I was told that my position at the school was not secure. Gargantuan budget cuts are predicted and everyone hired in 2008 by the Department of Education is getting sacked. I do not yet have the pink slip in my hand, but as of June 15 I may, and it does not look good.

I have been thinking about this every second. When I hit snooze, in the shower, on my commute, while wrangling 22 children all day, sitting in my classroom surrounded by paperwork, when I come home and spend the next four hours online, and finally staring at the ceiling at night while the alarm clock stares at me.

On so many levels, this is an atrocity. I have ten years of experience, I spend weekends working, ten and twelve hour days, emails, phone calls with worried parents, projects, committees. I scrub out the sink in my classroom, gently comfort a child with a sore throat, toss bandaids at 5 papercuts a day, spend weeks in the summer working on professional development, plan with colleagues, stack report cards in my purse to work on later at barbeques or superbowl parties, think about better ways to differentiate fucking math games, celebrate small moments, cheer on the little guy, literally. Every day.

Two years ago, I moved my books and baskets and puzzles and files into this classroom. It's always an adjustment, but PS321 is a rigorous school with high expectations for students and even higher expectations for teachers. It is known that you will work until 7:00 almost every night during your first year, a fact. I learned the ropes, politely smiling and nodding and working my ass off, then realizing what I know already and making a name for myself. Now, the thought of packing up my rubber tubs, renting a u-haul and moving to another space in order to start all over again makes me want to throw up all over Michael Bloomberg.

So do I toss in the sponge and admit defeat? Can I finally have a job that doesn't involve saying the phrase "you need to use a tissue instead of your finger" or "criss-cross applesauce"?? Can I stay up past 10:30 without guilt and be cheerful during the month of September, once again? Can I go on vacation in January, just for the hell of it, and actually check email between 8:30 and 3:00? What happens if I find out that drinking coffee at my desk and talking to grown-ups and refraining from singing instructions to people is boring and unfulfilling? I may find out June 15.

swimmy

I am the hater of all things bathing suit. I hate wearing them, I hate being seen in them, I hate thinking about them. Bathing suits. In the faraway past, I would cover myself head to toe, persistently pale and liking it. My first foray into lap swimming came when I joined the YMCA in chicago in 2003. I would leave school, head to the y, don a pair of surf shorts, a bikini halter-top, goggles and flip-flops and join the other mid-day swimmers in a sort of splashy waste of time. This was also a time when I refused to shave. Imagine for a moment.

I am also the hater of jogging. Sweaty, slamming feet on pavement, breathless. It has always been incredibly boring and painful to run. The whole idea seems ridiculous.

But now I'm 35 and I can't burn calories by jumping up and down in anticipation of frozen waffles anymore. I need to exercise. I decided I would try and swim again. Real swimming in a tight, smooth, black one-piece and a red swim cap; lap swimming for longer than 10 minutes. So my friend, Joanna, and I get up at 5:30 in the morning and walk the 1.2 miles to the YMCA and swim.

I usually feel like I'm going to barf or die or drown during the first ten minutes...like I have made no progress at all. But I keep counting and going and breathing and swimming until it begins to feel great, like I shouldn't stop. There's the regulars like back hair, hard kicker, and slo-mo in the medium-lane. There are also hard core fast-lane bros; all serious, wearing waterproof watches. There's the old guy in the slow-lane who swims underwater all of the way across the pool without coming up for air and the other slow-laner who wears flippers on her hands and plops her way across the pool like a little kid. Then there's me...sometimes forgetting to shave, sometimes quitting after 32 laps instead of 46...wondering what my nickname is.

Sometimes the kids in my class tell me that they can smell the chlorine on my skin. I am amazed that I drag myself out of bed so early, that I love the routine so much. One day when I missed my chance to swim, I felt crappy all day and I told my class why. Noah, my sweet, thoughtful student said, "I'm sorry you missed your pool party, Kim."

hazelnut

It is incredibly strange to have little, furry creatures wandering around one's home. Curled up into balls, eating from bowls, never leaving...like plants that meow and poop. Inside these little creatures are miniature hearts and lungs and bones and stomachs. They sit next to us, try to talk to us, follow us around. They have personalities, temperaments, weird ideas, and sometimes, problems.

Just this week, Hazel, my scrawny, crabby companion of 15 years, went into the animal hospital for a two-night stay. During his absence, part of me relished the lack of whiny cries, but another part of me really missed his rumpled presence. Thinking back on the past 15 years, Hazel has been omnipresent. I have probably said his name 20 times a day.

It all started in my mom's tiny house in Lake Zurich where I fed Hazel with a bottle. I would put his pint-sized body in the bib of my overalls and carry him to the record store where I worked summers. He would stay behind the registers, blocked off with big pieces of cardboard. Back to college in the fall and he lived in my bedroom in a dirty house shared by 10 people. Hazel's flea ridden body was washed in the bathroom sink until he looked like a soaked hamster. Then the apartment in Evanston with Nübie, a peevish cat given to me in high school who, after less than a year in the Evanston apartment, promptly moved back to Lake Zurich. Then, various places in Chicago as I progressed through grad school and into homeownership. First came Piggie, the energetic buddy - always wanting to play, but settling for a few licks and sniffs, maybe a roll around. After that, Egon, the squishy, loving teddy bear - Hazel was not amused. Finally miles and miles away in Brooklyn where now there is a new, arch nemesis, Carry, the giant panda cat.

Hazel's a weird animal. Picky and skinny and loud when he wants to be, fluffy and regal and hard-nosed. But every time I bury my nose in his belly, he purrs. When he sits next to me on the couch, he'll reach over and lay his paw gently on my arm. There have been times in the past when he literally climbs into the shower with me and runs out, soaking wet, but happy. With the exception of long distance bystanders, family and such, Hazel has been the only constant in my life for the past 15 years. It is an interesting relationship, a mute, yet loyal witness to my life thus far.

disobedience

When I was 19, in college, surrounded by leisure and debaucery, it was easy to rid oneself of responsibility, lay back and revel in the absolutely interminable conversations of youth. What do you believe in? Are you religious? Are you a virgin? Can you make me a mix tape? Let's order pizza.

I have always been on the cusp of extreme rule following and minor rebellion. My friends were obnoxious, opinionated, dogmatic, perhaps. There were a lot of males - really messy, sloppy, loud, lazy guys. Drinking forties, wearing the same jeans for weeks, throwing trash into the backseat, wanting to light things on fire. I was the voice of reason. Maybe not a good idea right now, guys. There's a cop right there. I want my security deposit back eventually.

It has always boggled my mind that I decided to encompass myself with such different personalities from myself. I can't say that I didn't think their behavior was funny at times; they were hilarious. I found great pleasure in making the people in my life more straight-laced than myself gasp. It was even better that it was them and not me. At the same time, I was driven by a force...a force ruled by obedience, aquiescence. The feeling that something really bad could happen if we got out-of-line. As I progressed through life after college, I drifted further and further away from such people until I found myself responsible, calm, a member of the working class with health insurance and a clean apartment.

Obviously this is the path of many. Buckle down and get it done. Go through life and follow the straight and narrow. Pay your bills, do your laundry, call your mother, eat a balanced meal. But I think that with the rigid adherence to these rules comes a feeling of loss. Too much rule following and you lose the spontaneity of human connection and dare I say, the sloppy mishaps that lead to the greatest stories and affinity for your compatriots. I am not saying that loving relationships happen only when the scales are unbalanced or that a full life is one that is fraught with disobedience. I wrestle with the monotony of daily life and struggle to find inspiration, but I also can get inflamed by disorder. I need to remember that sometimes inspiration comes from hours alone thinking or cleaning our apartment or calling my family or some other wholly predictable, rule following activity. But sometimes that inspiration comes from a night on a rooftop until four in the morning with my obstreperous husband and our sloppy compatriots.