The Onset of "Sunday Anxiety"

I've been reading a lot of personal blogs from teachers who are voicing opinions about their jobs. The frustrations, the victories, the reasons for why they walked out, the reasons why they stay, and how the kids are almost always the reason they can't break free from the personal hell that is teaching.

It may have taken 9 years, but I'm beginning to see that I'm not alone. It's forbidden to vent or talk about frustrations on my campus; God forbid we say ANYTHING negative about the state of our school, instruction, policies, or anything else. That's unhealthy, it's a way to keep teachers in a mentally isolated place, and it fosters quick burnout and hopelessness. Ask me how I know. Heh.

These other teachers have mentioned something called "Sunday Anxiety." I didn't even have to read further to understand exactly what they meant. I've been feeling it for a few years now. And it's not just the worry about being prepared, or making sure your clothes are ready...it's about knowing the misery you'll face as you walk through that door on Monday morning. Sunday nights are usually moody, with dinner being optional and elusive sleep. My Mondays start out with dry heaving and a headache before I even leave the house. Often, I'll sit in my truck in the parking lot for 7 or 8 minutes to do some deep breathing and calming rituals before braving the front doors.

I just don't love my job anymore. I love what teaching is SUPPOSED to be, but it's not. I could say that "teacher school" lied to me as I took all those education classes and did the field work, but they didn't. They gave me real-world situations - from 20 years ago when the professors were teachers themselves. I'm not sure they understand just how much education will change, even within a year. I went to school to do this; I wasn't in the corporate world and decided to "give back" and "change the world" because pushing a pencil around on a desk and submitting TP reports just felt too unproductive. And I know now that I made the wrong choice.

As the beginning of the school year quickly approaches - in less than 20 days - I feel the anxiety in full-swing already. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I've been crying...my boyfriend is sad because he knows he can't console me. Starting mid-year of last year, I started filling out applications to districts all over the rest of the state; places I knew I'd like to live and could actually do some positive things to improve instruction for the students. I had TWO bites out of close to 30 applications, and one was for the juvenile justice system high school on the US side of a Mexican border town and the other never even called me back when I left messages (3, to be exact) about setting up the interview they requested.

I'm more than qualified for these positions. The districts to which I applied are a little behind my current one in their instructional strategies and approaches. The concepts I learned from my very rough, urban, Title I school would do wonders for students in a slightly higher socioeconomic demographic. I am a very effective educator, despite all the obstacles, and have the data to prove it. Still, nothing. That being said, my "effectiveness" in my school is still deplorable and sub-standard, but my performance is still higher than the other teachers in my department and sometimes the rest of the district.

At this point, I have a couple of weeks to secure another position. I figure the districts must be desperate and I'll have a better chance. I will be taking a minimum of a $10K paycut for many of those jobs and I will probably have a difficult time finding housing I can afford and I will have to short sell my house (or let it go into foreclosure) and find a way to move what's left of my possessions, my dogs, my fish tanks, and all my cars to my new home. It won't be easy and it will take a lot of time, effort, and fuel. But I don't care. I have to do whatever I can to keep from vomiting up the water I drank during the night. I have to do whatever I can to stop swallowing "teacher strength Advil" which equates to 5 at a time. I have to stop the cycle of bawling out of depression every time my truck hits the street outside of the school, and all the way home.

So, in these last few days, please pray that something good will happen for me. If I get the position for which I applied last night, I would be very pleased. I'd be 4 and a half hours closer to the love of my life (which is currently a 6 hour drive from me), I will be in a town large enough for all the conveniences but small enough to be a place of emotional refuge with a lot of natural amenities such as lakes, untouched natural recreation areas, and beautiful landscape. I need this. And I only have the rest of this week to make it happen.

Thanks for letting me rant a little. I had to get this out to someone besides the ones who surround me and hear this same bellyaching every few weeks. I may not have many readers, but the ones I do have are the best. Thanks.
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It's Not Called Settling

Being ridiculously picky while searching for a gynecologist is a fantastic idea. Scrutinizing the acceptability of the nutrition labels of your food is probably a good thing. Sometimes being too picky can prevent you from getting something you'd like to accomplish in life. I know I’ll probably get many people - most likely women - who are going to cringe at what I'm saying, but just hear me out. There is a huge myth that no one should ever “settle” for the less-than-perfect man and, frankly, that’s just a really stupid way of thinking.

I read an article by Lori Gottlieb a few years ago and, at the time, I snorted. Of course, I had done what most people reading Internet publications do: I had only skimmed. Then I evaluated my own station in life and thought again about my closed-minded stupidity. Besides, all of us should realize that “perfect” doesn’t exist.

I was in a relationship with someone (We'll call him Jason) whom I believed was my perfect match. He was generous and smart and self-motivated and determined. I have a wide range of hobbies and he always encouraged me to pursue the ones we didn't have in common. There were four things I didn't like. 1) He was loud and talked a lot. It wasn't intentional, I don't believe, but it got significantly worse when he was excited or enthusiastic about something. 2) He had chicken legs. He just looked silly in shorts. 3) Tact wasn't in his vocabulary and he was unaware of his tone of voice. 4) He never wanted to get married.

The marriage thing was a problem for me. Then one day he gave me a grain of hope, by saying that there were many things about me that made him think we could be married and happy. That was all it took; I ran with it. I ran with it like a thief with an armful of stolen convenience store cigarettes.

Time went on and nothing had changed. I'd bring marriage up on occasion and it was a short-lived, vague conversation. After three years, I took an informal poll of all my male friends. I asked them, "When did you first realize you wanted to marry your wife, even if it didn't happen for years?" Without fail, every one of them gave me an answer that was less than six months. 

I scrutinized every last little detail about myself to try to figure out what was wrong with me. He loved me enough to want to be with me, but not enough to make a permanent commitment to me. He knew that was something I valued. I began remembering all the off-handed comments, including things about my "out of control" sex drive, and my weight (I need to lose less than 20 pounds to be in the middle of my optimal BMI, by the way).

I felt like he didn't love me enough to overlook some things that weren't perfect but I wouldn't think should be deal-breakers. I was absolutely sick and after many emotional arguments and heated accusations on my part, I chose to start seeing someone else who seemed to worship me. Yet I was miserable with him.

I met someone else (We'll call him James). He was wonderful and virtually perfect. I thought Jason was wonderful, but this man surpassed everything I dreamed a man could be - AND be interested in me! His generosity knew no bounds. His caring words and sensitivity was a refreshing change. His talents and interests were a few of the same ones I enjoyed.

I loved everything about him, except for a few things (you knew that was coming). His hairline was quite odd. He didn't have broad, manly shoulders. He had a duck-footed gait, which made him look like a ballet dancer. He was way more devoted to religion than I was comfortable with. His parents were too, and they put a lot of pressure on him to stick to traditional Biblical values. There were so many of my hobbies that he just wasn't into. His unstable jobs - all seasonal and he rotated with about 3 - kept him living several hours away from me. And, the biggest one...he was 14 years younger than me. Often, those things were all I could see when we were together. So I broke up with him.

After a few sessions with my psychiatrist, he made me see something very real. He introduced me to the 80/20 guideline: If you can find someone who is 80% ideal with 20% less-than-optimal qualities, as long as they aren't the dreaded "deal-breakers," you should take a serious look at yourself and see if you're really just being too picky and missing out on someone who may be the best thing that's ever happened to you.

How important is a hairline, really? I'd seen pictures of haircuts that flattered him. He'd expressed a desire to keep his hair shorter. So what was my problem? How embarrassed should a woman be over her man's shoulders? Really? That just sounds asinine now. It didn't keep me from being insanely attracted to him, mind, body, and soul.

The only two big obstacles were going to be the distance and the age. He never had an issue with the age - it was me; he was very mature (I think it was from being an only child) and all of his friends were much older than him. 

I'd really fucked up. The only thing I could do was get back in touch with him and beg him to forgive me, reconsider our relationship, and take me back.

He did. And I've never been happier. As partners - a team - I'm happy to support his career choices, knowing that my stable and sufficient income can carry us through the hard times and provide us with the health coverage we need. His parents love me and I love them. When I hug him, his sloped shoulders don't even enter my mind. Walking next to him, hand in hand, I don't see his feet. When we're nose-to-nose, looking into each other's eyes, the last thing I'm worried about is his hair. But I feel his love in every way and I realize it's not settling at all. It's being realistic and focusing on what's really important.

  

Chapter Six - Mike S.

Mike was younger than me by a few years and he was incredibly hot. He was in a band. Mike was probably 6' 3" and built like a Greek god, which wasn't too far off; he WAS Greek. With a shaved head full-sleeve tattoos, he looked like a bad boy and played the part well.

Our group of friends used to go to this nasty pool hall once a week. I wasn't good, but I was learning. Mike was the best player of all of us, and he wasn't one to let us forget it.

It all started the one night I finally got good enough to start kicking his ass at the game. It fired him up like crazy. I kept winning - not every game, but more than he was - and maybe he felt the need to assert his manhood or something, but I got the benefit from it. The sexual tension had been building for awhile. We all knew it but, let's be honest...there was always a lot of sexual tension between me and someone or another. :-/

At some point, he grabbed my hand, and began pulling me off my barstool, saying we needed to go outside and talk for a minute. We left the others to the game and I quickly found out that "talking" was not an accurate statement.

He literally threw me into our friend's car, jumped on top of me, and started kissing me. He was forceful, stripping off my clothes and tossing them all over the car. We were in a small parking lot, full of cars and people, and it just didn't matter. It was hot, sweaty, and passionate. I can remember the feel of the tapestry upholstery on my body; the slight dusty smell of the classic car's backseat. And his body against mine. Oh, GOD, his body...

Sidenote: If you've never had sex in the back of a 1960s-era car, you simply must. The seats are big and the springs give a certain sensation that you just can't get anywhere else...

Anyway, I could have probably gone all night from the sheer momentum of what had been building. With each movement, his chest sliding up and down against mine, I thought I was going to die - in the good way. Everyone knows how this kind of short narrative ends: with Stillie getting louder and louder, followed by sharp gasps of breath that just don't seem to fill her lungs fast enough.

There was no tender moment afterwards, only the realization (and huge sense of pride following the discovery) that our friends were (respectfully?) standing on the sidewalk one row away from the car. We got dressed and Mike stepped out of the car. I sat in the backseat, trying to adjust my boot laces, and he stood there looking at me. "You know we're not done...right?" All I could do was brush a little hair out of my face and nod.

Lionel (it was his car) walked up and carefully inspected the backseat. "Do I really want my friends sitting back here?" he asked, laughing. I guess nobody cared, because they all started piling in.

"We got kicked out because Richard knocked the cue ball off the table and didn't want to put any money in the jukebox," he said. "Besides, they're closing down in twenty minutes, so it's not like it matters. Everybody ready to get back to the house and drink a few?" Lionel was a lucky guy. His mother worked nights as a nurse, so his apartment was always our drinking spot. So, away we went.

Mike was attentive the rest of the evening, so it wasn't like he was embarrassed or anything - which was my first thought because, hell...he was one of those guys that every girl wanted to fuck, so what the hell was he doing with me? - and we hung out until about 4, when Lionel was nice enough to drive both Mike and me home. With no words, Mike wrote his number on a gas station receipt as he got out. He got to his door, turned around, and hollered, "Call me. We should get together."

Guys play the game, and so do I. I waited almost a week before I called him. It made my heart soar when I heard him say, "Well...I was wondering if you were ever going to call me." I laughed, because it's not like he needed me to get any. The tone of his voice hinted at a bit of insecurity, which made me giggle.

The rest of the sexual relationship isn't worth mentioning. I mean, it was always good, but nothing as exciting or as memorable as the parking lot thing. Eventually, I realized I was too insecure to carry on with a guy who could have his pick of just about any girl - and I'm sure he still did anyway - and I just sort of faded away. He didn't try to follow, which made me realize it was probably for the best.

Where is he now? Still playing in a band. He's made a few solo albums, traveled a bit, done a lot of collaborations with a lot of talented artists. I'm guessing he still has a real name, but he has a stage name that he uses professionally and on Facebook. I found him through a friend and sent him a request; we've had a few exchanges, but it's been nothing important. He's doing well, pretty successful as a musician, and I'm happy for him. In case you're wondering, he's still incredibly drool-inducing.

Next up: Zack P.

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