If you do the math right, there are 14 weeks left of real school for me. This is not bad, considering I've been working on my undergrad since the fall of 2004 - or, my entire life, if you have parents like mine. When I think back at all the teachers I've had, so many of them train-wrecks, the majority of them bad dressers, and most of them unmemorable, I really am afraid that one day it'll be my fate to teach.
Take my Spanish teacher, for example, who's outfit I feel like I should document every day because they're so outrageous. She looks to be about 24 going on 90, her face the fleshy color of a white peach with splotches of juicy red. Her eyebrows are bushier than mine and her small round-framed glasses, the same splotchy red color as the blemishes on her skin tie everything together.
Her hair is shoulder length, full, the color of a drab oak table you might find inside of your grandmother's house. She's wearing these burnt orange polyester pants that look like one-half of a 70s milk-man's uniform, with a wide Mediterranean scarf tied around her waist of the same color. Her black long sleeve t-shirt is both torn at the sleeves and at the neckline, a homage to the 80s which would only be complete by sweatbands on her head and wrist and chunky plastic jewelry. What's worst is that the tears in her clothes look intentional.
If this is my fate, then so be it. However, it will be a long time before I succumb to it.
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