I'm not a good teacher. Most mornings I wake up an hour or more before my alarm, too stressed to sleep. My eye twitches sometimes.
But damn there can be some good moments despite my inconsistencies, unpreparedness, overwhelmedness, and occasional short-temperedness.
Let me describe one. "Pouches" was on my weekly vocabulary list, and within its definition was situated a pair of words that were destined to be spoken in the same breath. I hadn't noticed their power when I'd first copy-pasted them into a Word document, but as I read the definition aloud to the class, my tongue glided gracefully over those elegantly-placed words, and I realized I had an opportunity.
(Note, this was during my eighth-grade class, a group chock-full of kids softer than cheesecake, making it possible to simply attempt this tangent in the middle of class.)
I looked up and smiled at the lil' schillins, sitting there so quietly, copying the very definition that contained those two seductive words.
I repeated the two words again, louder this time, and their singsong delight affected more than one student, as a few stopped writing and looked up at me, the whispers of a smile playing on their faces. I said the two words once more, and that brought fifty eyes off of journals and onto me in anticipation.
I told them to repeat after me, and I basked in the pleasurable phoneticism (not a real word) of those syllables said in unison.
After a few incantations, I confessed that I had really enjoyed watching all of them smile after saying a mere two words. Isolated, those words are just as bland as most others. (There are the rare delights that can stand alone–like magnanimous and wrinkly and aplomb.) But together, those two boring words suddenly had a power, so much so that they inspired feeling into the little kanguros sitting in their seats with mouths twisted into grins.
You may need to say the words out loud to get a sense of what I felt when the lil' schoolchildren repeated them in higher and higher decibels, with increasing enthusiasm.
Here they come:
Flexible receptacle.
I asked them how two words made up of a few letters could possibly have had such an affect on them. I reminded them that most were smiling as they said the words.
Lia raised her hand, about to share an answer that would make my day: "They make my mouth feel all tingly." And then, like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, my heart exploded.
And with such a high, I decided to leave the classroom, exit the building, hop on my bike, and retire right then and there. Because I always wanted to leave at the peak–to go out on top.
Just kidding. I'm planning to be here a little while. And here's proof:
(The below letter is going to come out of nowhere. It's going to seem completely random and off-topic. I recognize this. I just wanted to share it with you because I thought it was mildly funny. Oh and I actually sent this letter just yesterday.)
Dearest Sterling,
While I’ve enjoyed mightily our long-term relationship, I’m afraid I just can’t take it anymore. I’ve been with you for so many years now that one blurs into the next. Although I still remember as clear as yesterday when I first entered your walls (innuendo certainly intended), feeling like I could act myself, like we were meant to be.
Over the course of our seven years together (has it been so many?), we’ve had our ups and downs, as most relationships are wont to experience. I remember a low point coming at the end of my sophomore year in college, when rent and tuition and bills had us on the brink of a termination. But we pulled through, you and I, together, working through our problems and always staying united against the many forces trying to pry us apart (other banks, zero ATM's in Eugene, the lack of any social media presence on your part).
Alas, despite our seemingly undeniable chemistry, time has changed both you and me. Perhaps more me than you, as I am now 3,000 miles away from where we first swapped stories under those high-ceilinged chandeliers, our reflection glinting off the brass handle of your delightfully forthcoming safe. (PS, I opened up to you in a branch without chandeliers, but time adds reverence to memory).
As I was saying, I’m too far away. I can’t do the distance, the loneliness, the yearning, the sharp intake of breath when I see another on the street that resembles you–your same colors mixed with a similarly handsome facade. I’m afraid I’m going to need returned to me the remaining remnants of what I left with you. I’m afraid I’m going to have to sever the only thing that still links us. I’m afraid I’m going to take back what I once wanted us to share.
I’m afraid I’m going to have to close my account.
Sincerely,
Max Londberg
(PS: If this was too wordy to decipher, I’m basically saying I need to close my checking account because I moved to Connecticut. But I loved every minute of banking with you.)
Anyway, I recently called my old bank to close my account, and the kind gentlewoman said I had to send in a signed letter to do so. I couldn't pass up the chance to write up a weird-ass letter to end our relationship.
But damn there can be some good moments despite my inconsistencies, unpreparedness, overwhelmedness, and occasional short-temperedness.
Let me describe one. "Pouches" was on my weekly vocabulary list, and within its definition was situated a pair of words that were destined to be spoken in the same breath. I hadn't noticed their power when I'd first copy-pasted them into a Word document, but as I read the definition aloud to the class, my tongue glided gracefully over those elegantly-placed words, and I realized I had an opportunity.
(Note, this was during my eighth-grade class, a group chock-full of kids softer than cheesecake, making it possible to simply attempt this tangent in the middle of class.)
I looked up and smiled at the lil' schillins, sitting there so quietly, copying the very definition that contained those two seductive words.
I repeated the two words again, louder this time, and their singsong delight affected more than one student, as a few stopped writing and looked up at me, the whispers of a smile playing on their faces. I said the two words once more, and that brought fifty eyes off of journals and onto me in anticipation.
I told them to repeat after me, and I basked in the pleasurable phoneticism (not a real word) of those syllables said in unison.
After a few incantations, I confessed that I had really enjoyed watching all of them smile after saying a mere two words. Isolated, those words are just as bland as most others. (There are the rare delights that can stand alone–like magnanimous and wrinkly and aplomb.) But together, those two boring words suddenly had a power, so much so that they inspired feeling into the little kanguros sitting in their seats with mouths twisted into grins.
You may need to say the words out loud to get a sense of what I felt when the lil' schoolchildren repeated them in higher and higher decibels, with increasing enthusiasm.
Here they come:
Flexible receptacle.
I asked them how two words made up of a few letters could possibly have had such an affect on them. I reminded them that most were smiling as they said the words.
Lia raised her hand, about to share an answer that would make my day: "They make my mouth feel all tingly." And then, like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, my heart exploded.
And with such a high, I decided to leave the classroom, exit the building, hop on my bike, and retire right then and there. Because I always wanted to leave at the peak–to go out on top.
Just kidding. I'm planning to be here a little while. And here's proof:
(The below letter is going to come out of nowhere. It's going to seem completely random and off-topic. I recognize this. I just wanted to share it with you because I thought it was mildly funny. Oh and I actually sent this letter just yesterday.)
Dearest Sterling,
While I’ve enjoyed mightily our long-term relationship, I’m afraid I just can’t take it anymore. I’ve been with you for so many years now that one blurs into the next. Although I still remember as clear as yesterday when I first entered your walls (innuendo certainly intended), feeling like I could act myself, like we were meant to be.
Over the course of our seven years together (has it been so many?), we’ve had our ups and downs, as most relationships are wont to experience. I remember a low point coming at the end of my sophomore year in college, when rent and tuition and bills had us on the brink of a termination. But we pulled through, you and I, together, working through our problems and always staying united against the many forces trying to pry us apart (other banks, zero ATM's in Eugene, the lack of any social media presence on your part).
Alas, despite our seemingly undeniable chemistry, time has changed both you and me. Perhaps more me than you, as I am now 3,000 miles away from where we first swapped stories under those high-ceilinged chandeliers, our reflection glinting off the brass handle of your delightfully forthcoming safe. (PS, I opened up to you in a branch without chandeliers, but time adds reverence to memory).
As I was saying, I’m too far away. I can’t do the distance, the loneliness, the yearning, the sharp intake of breath when I see another on the street that resembles you–your same colors mixed with a similarly handsome facade. I’m afraid I’m going to need returned to me the remaining remnants of what I left with you. I’m afraid I’m going to have to sever the only thing that still links us. I’m afraid I’m going to take back what I once wanted us to share.
I’m afraid I’m going to have to close my account.
Sincerely,
Max Londberg
(PS: If this was too wordy to decipher, I’m basically saying I need to close my checking account because I moved to Connecticut. But I loved every minute of banking with you.)
Anyway, I recently called my old bank to close my account, and the kind gentlewoman said I had to send in a signed letter to do so. I couldn't pass up the chance to write up a weird-ass letter to end our relationship.