Despite what the calendar says, California is adamantly opposing the change of seasons. The temperature has dropped to around seventy a handful of times in the last month, if your hand only holds two items at a time. Yesterday, I decided I didn't care. I was tired of wearing flip flops in October, and I made up my mind to wear boots to work.
Since I'm currently the most scattered hobo on the planet with possessions in three separate locations, none of which are the house I signed a lease on last night, I have been a tad bit limited in my attire options as of late. Specifically, I'd run out of clean socks at Lauren's house. This is entirely my own fault as I only brought one pair with me, stuffing the others in a suitcase that ended up... somewhere, not here. I'd gotten completely dressed before I realized my only clean pair of socks had already been worn more times than is technically acceptable. I considered my other shoe options, but ultimately I decided that my wearing of the boots would not be hindered by such a silly thing as a lack of socks. My critical thinking skills are limited at six-something in the morning, and I deduced that putting an insert in the boots would suffice in lieu of clean socks. I stuffed the inserts in the bottom of my boots and headed out the door.
All seemed to be going according to plan until I started to climb the hill to my classroom. I realized immediately that, without socks, my feet rubbed against the inserts in my boots and made an incredibly loud farting sound. Many of you are not eighth grade teachers, so you will not fully understand how emphatically I must stress this next statement: when you spend your day with twelve-year-olds, under no circumstance may anything on your person ever make a farting sound. Not your chair, not your shoes, not even your stomach rumbling. If a sound can even remotely be considered a distant cousin to a fart, you'll lose control of every single class that walks through your door that day.
When I reached my room, I scanned around for something that could act as a barrier between my now-sweaty feet and the bottoms of the shoes. Unfortunately, I haven't made myself at home enough in my classroom yet to begin storing clothing items in the cabinet, and I came up short. With only a few minutes left before my first class would enter, I spotted the tissues on my desk. That'll work! I told myself. I unzipped my boots, wrapped my feet in tissues, and stuffed my feet back in the shoes. Getting up to test my impromptu solution, I was proud to discover that my shoes were completely silent. Well done, self, I thought, and I began teaching my morning class.
A few hours later, I was called to a 504 meeting to discuss the educational accommodations for a student in my class who has some learning disabilities. As I discussed various plans for helping this student succeed, a thought crept into my mind. There I sat, providing professional input to a team of educators, administers, psychologists, and parents, and the whole time, I had tissues stuffed inside my boots to keep them from farting. Of all the teachers at the school who could have made these important decisions, they chose me.
The girl wearing tissues as socks.
Since I'm currently the most scattered hobo on the planet with possessions in three separate locations, none of which are the house I signed a lease on last night, I have been a tad bit limited in my attire options as of late. Specifically, I'd run out of clean socks at Lauren's house. This is entirely my own fault as I only brought one pair with me, stuffing the others in a suitcase that ended up... somewhere, not here. I'd gotten completely dressed before I realized my only clean pair of socks had already been worn more times than is technically acceptable. I considered my other shoe options, but ultimately I decided that my wearing of the boots would not be hindered by such a silly thing as a lack of socks. My critical thinking skills are limited at six-something in the morning, and I deduced that putting an insert in the boots would suffice in lieu of clean socks. I stuffed the inserts in the bottom of my boots and headed out the door.
All seemed to be going according to plan until I started to climb the hill to my classroom. I realized immediately that, without socks, my feet rubbed against the inserts in my boots and made an incredibly loud farting sound. Many of you are not eighth grade teachers, so you will not fully understand how emphatically I must stress this next statement: when you spend your day with twelve-year-olds, under no circumstance may anything on your person ever make a farting sound. Not your chair, not your shoes, not even your stomach rumbling. If a sound can even remotely be considered a distant cousin to a fart, you'll lose control of every single class that walks through your door that day.
When I reached my room, I scanned around for something that could act as a barrier between my now-sweaty feet and the bottoms of the shoes. Unfortunately, I haven't made myself at home enough in my classroom yet to begin storing clothing items in the cabinet, and I came up short. With only a few minutes left before my first class would enter, I spotted the tissues on my desk. That'll work! I told myself. I unzipped my boots, wrapped my feet in tissues, and stuffed my feet back in the shoes. Getting up to test my impromptu solution, I was proud to discover that my shoes were completely silent. Well done, self, I thought, and I began teaching my morning class.
A few hours later, I was called to a 504 meeting to discuss the educational accommodations for a student in my class who has some learning disabilities. As I discussed various plans for helping this student succeed, a thought crept into my mind. There I sat, providing professional input to a team of educators, administers, psychologists, and parents, and the whole time, I had tissues stuffed inside my boots to keep them from farting. Of all the teachers at the school who could have made these important decisions, they chose me.
The girl wearing tissues as socks.
