one of those days

DISCLAIMER: The following is the author's attempt to make sense of the day he has had. It is not to be taken too seriously, or too lightly for that matter. But the day perplexes, and writing, hopefully, will help to sort out the tangles. Hopefully. Also, please note: it is officially Talk in Third Person Day (3/3).

Thurman awoke to the jarring sound of his cell phone's death rattle shaking him from somewhere this side of actual rest. Unlike previous mornings, when he had horribly abused his snooze button, Thurman jumped immediately from bed. He knew he had promises to keep and miles to go before...well, you know.

Prep and travel to school was uneventful, if a bit out of the ordinary - a quick stop at Speedway for some caffeine, then on to Kroger to reward a class for a competition won months ago, finally stopping at the dreaded Arches for a sandwich and a yogurt parfait. Thurman still pulled into the parking lot before 6AM and was busy grading journals and furiously late homework assignments as students entered the building. He felt accomplished, knowing his day required little more than asking for final questions and hitting play for the Mockingbird DVD.

On days like this, it's hard to pinpoint the exact moment when it all starts to spiral out of control. Perhaps when his class refused to shut the fuck up while the movie was playing. Perhaps while watching Tom Robinson wrongfully declared guilty for the nine-hundred and ninety-ninth time. Perhaps while grading reflections lacking any kind of depth or intellectual rigor. Or perhaps it was the cumulation of a thousand little things, each stealing a little bit of his soul away.

By lunch time, the darkness had taken hold. Thurman's humor took on an edge - a short jab here, a snide remark there. Luckily he was done with students for the day and the only person who might have noticed was his partner in lunch-time crime, Andy. Did he sense the change? Could he tell his friend was preparing to step off into the abyss? Could anyone?

Thurman returned to his room after lunch, photocopied his final and dove head first into the pile of journals still waiting for his red pen of doom. No joy filled his heart as he read his student's words and made comments on their thoughts. Only a desire to be done with it all and go home. But no, that wasn't going to happen any time soon. First he had to go discuss the dreaded summer reading assignment with his fellow sophomore cogs in the wheel. Thurman hated summer reading, thought it a waste of time for everyone involved. The email pointing out its benefits and its importance only increased his hatred for it. And then, after beating his head against that wall, he had to stay so a student could take her exam early because of a soccer tournament in Tennessee.

A thousand little things.

He didn't hear the final bell ring, only saw the hallways flood with students and knew it was time to go. He finished the last of bell two's journals, printed off the hated email and made his way to his friend Kurt's room. He talked with Kurt about the open department head position, saying he would vote for him in a second, especially if it meant keeping other people out. He even joked that honestly, anyone who wants to be the department head should be automatically disqualified, following Douglas Adams's logic on those seeking power.* It was then that Kurt mentioned he'd already talked to Jenny about applying to be department head.

Another bit of soul.

Luckily Thurman's embarrassment didn't last long as the rest of his comrades came in. They allayed his fears that they would have to revamp their entire assignment to fit within the confines of the email, so they moved on to other issues, namely how lit circles had gone this trimester. He expressed his frustrations with using the Wikispace and with the activities in general and told of his plans to revamp what he'd done to make it more student and teacher friendly. Then he heard how the unit had gone in other classes. Amazing. The students loved it. The work they turned in was reflective and accomplished. The grading was a snap. One of the best parts of the trimester.

Thurman's head began to buzz. Conversation continued, but he checked out, not wanting to be reminded of his incompetency, his lack of proper planning skills, his worthlessness as a teacher. Everyone was laughing, discussing classes and students, but he sat there hiding behind a benign smile, wanting to leave but afraid to miss something important. Eventually the clock helped move him from his indecisiveness: his student was waiting to take her exam. He excused himself, found said student and walked with her back to his room. While she bubbled and scribbled on the scantron, Thurman tried to shake the all-too-familiar feeling bubbling up inside him.

On days like this, logic goes out for a drive and it never comes back. No amount of mental gymnastics will stop the barrage of negative thoughts. You're the worst teacher ever to collect a paycheck. Your students would be better off with a trained monkey passing out worksheets. You are emotionally incapable of being in any kind of relationship, not that anyone would want to be in a relationship with someone so physically unattractive. You have 40 more years left on a life filled with loneliness and destined for worthlessness (25 years if you're lucky). You could disappear from the face of the earth and no one would even notice...or care.

On days like this, thinking positive thoughts is impossible. Most days you can ignore the temptation to compare yourself to everyone else around you. Not today. There's always an "er" standing by to crush your soul. There's always someone better, smarter, funnier, cuter, richer, happier, sexier, kinder, friendlier, braver. More successful, more attractive, more confident, more desirable, each thought stepping on the heels of the one before it, stampeding through your brain until all you can think to do is find some way to remove your brain from your head, preferably with a heavy metal object and an explosion.

These were the thoughts torturing Thurman as he drove in silence toward his house. He'd felt this way before and he knew from experience these weren't the kind of thoughts to simply go away. He couldn't fill his head with happy thoughts because, well, he couldn't think of any. He tried to bury his thoughts in escapist television, but only succeeded in making the world seem sadder. Even a trip to his favorite Mexican restaurant couldn't cheer him up. He ended up feeling bloated and even uglier than he had before. To make matters worse, a five-minute sneezing fit assailed him on the drive home, only to be topped when he stopped at Kroger for a sugar fix and stepped in some poor child's pastel-colored vomit in the Easter candy aisle. The perfect ending to the perfect day.

Not wanting to be around people anymore, Thurman made his way home and did the only thing he thought might save him from his scorching case of ennui: he flipped on the computer screen, laid the keyboard in his lap, and typed and typed and typed into the night...Æ

*"It is a well-known fact that those people who must want to rule people are, ipso facto, those least suited to do it... anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job."