"You Live for Fashion!"

Current InStyle

The title comes from an episode of Sex and the City called "The Real Me" and is spoken by Charlotte York to Jen Savery, I mean, Carrie Bradshaw. 

The September issue of all fashion magazines is the largest of each calendar year. Vogue's September 2007 Issue weighed nearly 5 lbs. The current InStyle for this month is 652 pages. Fall is, as you learn flipping through pages showing how to wear cheetah print boots and burgundy skinny jeans, not for the fashion fearful.
InStyle is my favorite magazine.* Colorful, well organized, diverse pieces and smart pairings for real women, it sings a seductive siren song of all the things, literally things, missing from my closet and therefore, a higher quality of life.

But does owning -------- (insert current item of lust) actually improve my quality of life?

2007 September Issue 

The ad below unapologetically flaunts what all ads, what all secular culture tells us-- this will fill your void, this will satisfy your desires and longings and you will never be the same after.

I admit that I have fallen for this trap far, far more than I would like to admit. And if you've seen my closet you'd think I was filled up by now.  I own more shoes than anyone I know. I am talking Toto, we aren't in double digits anymore-- but than why do I keep looking at fashion magazines?

Because fashion can quickly become my idol and, thus, my sin.

Anna Wintour, Editor-in-Cheif of Vogue. Oh, you devilishly stylish
woman, you. 

When discussing my long hiatus from blogging with a friend she suggested I write more just about food and clothes, less about "your life. I mean, I really like what you wear and when you talk about food." She did not mean this to hurt my feelings or to say my life isn't important, but let's be honest-- if all I am good for is fashion and food, it isn't.

That void I mentioned earlier, the one people try to fill with a purse or a drink or a one night stand or a bit of gossip, can only be filled and satisfied by God. We are guilty of becoming "culturally Christian," meaning we choose social practices that seem Christian, but we end up becoming judgmental and  complacent. Our idea of morality is defined by comparison. Good is subjective to what it is being compared to. Francis Chan really nails this one on the head in his book Crazy Love. We accept and even embrace our sins so long as we aren't "as sinful" as someone else. Abstaining from drinking, cussing, premarital sex, murder, drugs are not what make us Christians. Only through recognizing (read: loving as He did, talking about, praising, living as an extension of Him, loving, loving, loving, loving) Christ as our savior are we actually Christians. I have let myself shop because if that's my weakness, it's really not as bad as making alcohol or sex or drugs my idol. I don't intentionally hurt anyone, so what's one more pair of shoes?

If I am not wearing my faith as prominently as the red soles of my Christian Louboutins, I am the worst kind of sinner of all. St. Augustine, who was quite the partyboy, wrote "Grant me chastity and continence, but not yet." Translation in modern vernacular: Lord make me sinless in your eyes.... unless sinless means seeking your glory before my selfish desires, than in that case maybe just kind of sinless.

Those red soles are among the most brilliant marketing
 techniques in fashion history 

The Chic-Fila controversy aroused emotional reactions from all different sides. People who side with the franchise lined up to buy chicken sandwiches and those who disagreed, boycotted. (By the way, I am remaining impartial on the topic, this is to prove a much bigger point.) I saw a picture in Facebook that had a caption reading something about there have never been that many Christians lining up to volunteer at a homeless shelter or food bank. My thought process here was 1) That was a rude caption, especially considering the controversy surrounds equality and rights and my faith is a reserved right 2) At the same time, that people had more to say and stand up for over a fast food restaurant than they do for their faith-- no amount of chicken sandwiches will outlaw gay marriage, nor will the plummet of chicken sandwiches sales legalize gay marriage.


When asked if I am a Christian, I am not being asked if I eat at Chic-Fila or or if I own cross jewelry or have a fish bumper sticker or if I even go to church (My list inspired by Not a Fan by Kyle Idleman).

I am being asked if I love Christ and if I live to glorify God. 

I like love hearing people say they love my outfit. It totally validates the time spent picking it out and making sure I have the right balance of color, texture and coverage. What this really means is I need to spend more time being a Christ-like example in an ever-darkening world than I do selecting my clothing ensembles. 

John 20:15 (NAS) Mary is searching for Christ Easter morning. Before she recognizes him, he asks, "Whom are you seeking?" When translated into Greek, seek is synonymous with crave. This conjures not only images of delicious cupcakes, but all the material things I have saved to my Shopbop WishList. 

So here is the challenge to myself: No shopping in September.** None. Instead, working on making God what I crave.

What do you crave? What do you fill your life with?




* I enjoy Vogue, but there are more ads than content in most issues. Ahhh, the symbolism. 
** THE  fashion month. As in, fashion's birthday...basically. 

Phamily Time

Polly and I have made the journey to the land north of the Mason Dixon. These are our stats thus far:

Times I have been told I have an accent: 2 (False, in my opinion)
Times Joe has said he is glad that I am here: 100
Times that I have gotten mad for forgetting some article of clothing: 28
Bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch I have eaten: 11
Friends I have made: 12
Friends Joe has made because of me: 12
Laps Polly has run around the fully carpeted apartment: 22
Time Polly has been waking up and, thus, woken us up: 6:32 AM
Times I have introduced myself as, "Jennifer Wegmann, I mean, Savery" : 3
Days it took me to find Target: 2 hours after landing in Philadelphia
Times I have told Joe how thankful I am that I can be here: Not enough

My new friends and I hoping the grass isn't too wet

We participated in Family Day, which is geared more towards those who actually have more than 2 people in their family. Two other players' girls and I stood around joking about needing a prop child to fit in. It was precious watching all the kids in their uniforms run the bases, fall down, run the bases again and then jump on dad. Christmas card photo op if I ever saw one.

Joe's mom asked if I was doing well. His response went something like this, "Well, she got us on a triple date; tonight she is going to a wives' dinner; we are modeling in a fashion show. She is doing pretty well."

And, yes, we are in a fashion show. A charity one, not a legitimate one. My dress is gorgeous and fun and my shoes are bejeweled Christian Louboutin's with all the colors of the rainbow.... and they match Joe's shirt. I am sure he will make his multi-colored shirt very handsome, and if nothing else my shoes will make anything near it look good. Trying on the clothes was enough fun for me. Big thanks to Neiman Marcus and the Shane Victorino Foundation for the event and letting us have big girl dress up day.

My beauties. Move over, Cinderella. 

As tenuous as our position is here, we are thankful for the many modes of kindness people have shown us. If the rain and the cold weather can go away, I will be even happier!

Different jersey sizes? 

Here and already leaving soon. Joe played in Baltimore over the weekend so I came a little further south to visit a friend. In Baltimore, the hotel gave Polly a doggie bed and bowls and treats. Not 5 minutes after we got in our room the door rang with comforts for the princess. Must be nice to be so cute, huh?

I have a friend's wedding next weekend in Mississippi (sweet tea, anyone?). I am over the moon excited to see my friends next weekend. I know they will all agree when I say that all time has done is make us more appreciative for the friendships we have with one another. And what better way to reunite than our friends big Southern wedding? Stay tuned for the prodigal daughter to return to the South.....

I know, this is cheesy, but we will appreciate it in the future. 

Don't Mess with (me when I am leaving) Texas

I move very, very soon. My messy mid-packing apartment is a constant reminder of the rapidly approaching departure. Currently, we don’t know where exactly I am moving to; this includes both city and type of residence. Joe has bounced up and down and then up and then down again and then back up this season enough that we haven’t settled on what we should do about the roof over our heads. Polly says she isn’t worried about it.

We totalled up how many miles I have traveled this year thus far: 18,000 miles between January and today. The world is 24,0000 around so I am almost guaranteed to have traveled “around the world” by the end of the season. To those of you who have jobs like George Clooney in Up in the Air, you have far more patience than I. 

Can you imagine if Clooney sat next to you on a flight?
I might not get off the plane.
Oh, come on, even Joe might stay on the flight next to George!

Things I will miss about Texas:

Good Co. barbecue 

Goode Co. on Kirby

Dr. Pepper
My familyPeople saying Coke, but really meaning any carbonated beverage
“Y’all”
Cowboy boots in a non-novelty way
The Guadalupe River. By the way, this is my first summer in 4 years to not be working at Mystic and my first summer in 16 years to realize I can't go back and work there.... or be a camper.

The Guad at Camp Mystic's Waterfront

My friends
Steak
The Galleria
My church
Finding any item of clothing you can imagine can, in fact, bear the Texas flag

I think my sister owns one of these
shirts. They have
the real thing too, if that's what you're
looking for

The Rodeo
St. Arnold’s and Shiner Light Blonde
Swimming in October
Texas Country Music

In honor of my hiatus from Texas (as if four years of college were not enough), I am going to write a few little vignettes about the Texas I know, the Texas that has been created around me and the one we so love to romanticize when we have to be away.


Water from the sprinkler turned to steam on the concrete. Everything was wet and hot. Even the cars’ hoods looked like water as the heat rippled over them.  Somewhere in the distance an ambulance drove by, its siren’s tone getting lower as it passed. Zoe played in the soil with naked Barbies. Her toddling sister slept inside, her hair curling on her forehead from the baby sweat. Later their father would come home with his dry cleaning and golf shoes. Later they would eat Kraft macaroni and cheese and drink milk from cups they bought at the circus. Zoe’s was a pink elephant. Its trunk was the handle and it had long black eyelashes. She made the Barbies do the splits and tried to make them hold handstands in the grass. One of the Barbie’s hair was brown, which meant she wasn’t really a Barbie, but Barbie’s friend Susan. Or Brenda. Some name that was not Barbie and did not have an “i” with a heart on her box. A boy rode his bike, without training wheels, down the street. Zoe wanted her baby sister to wake up so they could fill up the inflatable pool and make the Barbies, and Brenda, go skinny dipping. Zoe liked to go under the water and open her eyes. She could see the pebbles and sticks poking at the bottom of the soft plastic pool and her hair stuck to her face when she finally came out. Her mom did not like it when she put her face under. Her mother, now, was moving the sprinkler to make sure her begonias and monkey grass got enough to drink. It had been many days since she watered the plants so much of it was dead. Little brown buds fell off and ran in streams to the hot, wet street.

The second canoe was smoother than the first. The Guadalupe water was still and green before the dam and we could see turtles heads pop up and the outline of their shells. Sweat prickled on my back like the insects that landed on the water. Their legs twitched and spasmed, then they flew to another spot. Or went to the tall grass on the road side of the river. I asked West if he wanted to turn back before the dam; he said no. We didn’t talk for a while after that, just listened to the sound of our paddles dip in the water and scrape against our old metal canoes. Sometimes my Dr. Pepper cans rattled by my feet. Sometimes West was so silent I could have sworn he was a Hill Country Indian. His bandana was tied around his head and his shirt, long discarded, was tucked into the seat of his shorts over his butt. He stopped paddling and looked at me while he took a drink from his water bottle.
“You’re doing a pretty good job there,” he said to me.
“I like the river.” He smiled but didn’t say anything and went back to his silent paddling. West’s back was burning and I was sure that mine was red, too. Later we would have to take turns putting cold aloe vera on each other’s backs. West would tell me to put it on my hands first before rubbing it in. I wouldn’t say anything. And maybe he would pat my shoulder as a way of telling me he was finished. The dam was upon us. We had to pick up the canoes one at a time and walk them down. Though the water was more shallow, the river floor was clay and dipped down in tubs. West got a leech on his forearm. He pulled and flicked at it till the leech fell off.
“So do you have to suck the poison out?” I asked.
“No, that’s snakes. This will just need to be cleaned. Plus, if I was bitten by a snake, you would have to suck the poison because I would be too weak.”
“I would do that. For you.”
“I know.”
The current moved us for a while without having to paddle except to stay straight. We would need to turn around soon to make it back before dark. Or we would just stay on the river till the breeze picked up and the water turned black beneath our canoes.


They sat on top of the picnic table with their feet on the bench, just like they had done in high school. They’d eat cafeteria yogurt and talk about their days, uniform skirts tucked between their thighs as to attempt modesty. They had on jeans and boots so there was less balancing involved now. There was also no yogurt, just some beers in plastic cups and a poorly sugared funnel cake. Marcy wore a push up bra that night and it was riding up her back and she was certain one of the straps was twisted. When she got dressed she looked like a sexy cowgirl, she thought. But now, sitting next to Allison and a few hours into the night, she felt like she had tried too hard. You could tell she had tried to look like a sexy cowgirl, and what she really was was a sexy cowgirl’s overly primped friend. Allison, who did not own a push up bra, wanted to get a cinnamon roll and maybe ride the ferris wheel. They got up to find the tent with the cinnamon rolls, but there was a cluster of high school students flirting and laughing too loudly. Marcy suggested they still wait in line, but Allison said she changed her mind about the cinnamon roll and she just wanted to go sit and watch the ferris wheel and finish their beers. Marcy had wanted to finish her beer in line with the high schoolers, but followed Allison back to the picnic table that now had two Hispanic boys playing with one of the prize stuffed animals. It looked like a squid. Marcy almost made a joke about things that look like squids; she decided against it though.  They watched the boys play for a while then looked back wordlessly at the blinking lights of the ferris wheel.

The Heels Were Made for Teaching

Bookshelf at Shakespeare and Co. in Paris, France
One of my study abroad trips in college

“Wait, what do you mean ‘Free Read Day’? I don’t get it." This was the general response from my students when I told them to bring a book, no iPads, Kindles, eBooks, magazines or comics, to read in class last week. (Note: A student brought Captain Underpants and actually tried to make an argument as to why he could read it as a junior for Free Read Day. A book that comes with stickers is not going to fly for Free Read Day.)

This face would probably shock
my students

When they were unable to bring a book to school, I let them borrow some of mine.  
I shocked my students with the fact that the books I gave them were not 17th century poetry or written in Old English. The books I gave them were by modern and contemporary authors with some elements I know they weren’t expecting (“Uhm, this book says the word ‘beer,’ is that okay?”*) and with endings they certainly were not anticipating (“Why does he just walk away? Why did she still love him?”**). But I loved that they were holding books from my personal library, with my old notes and scribbles in the margins. I know they felt like they were looking into my diary or something, and in a way they were, by my diary as a reader not as a writer. 

Student A: “Are we going to find notes to ex- boyfriends in here?”
Me: “Would I still have the book if I wrote notes to other people in them?”
Student A: “Guess not.”
Me: “Besides, I would never let an ex-boyfriend keep my books.” Student B: “ Wait, You have ex-boyfriends?!”


This is the same reaction to my having a doctor’s appointment, as though we, teachers, do not go to doctors or get sick or leave the school campus for anything. Did I think that about my teachers? I guess to some degree I did, but when I came back to school after the doctor they were very inquisitive then as well.
Student A:“Are you sick?”
Me: “Nope.”
Student B:“Are you getting sick?”
Me: “No, just a check up.”
Student A again: “Were you faking sick?” 
Student B:"I bet you were faking."

Me: “Okay, time for a pop quiz.”

With this year winding down I keep wondering if I have made any impact on them besides my clothing-- which is still commented on daily (“I don’t think you have worn the same shoes twice,” said a male student to me. “Yes she has, she wore those before Christmas break. That is two times this school year, gosh, you idiot,” said a female student in my ‘defense.’)
But I think about my most influential teachers, the ones that made me want to be a teacher; I wonder if I have done even half of that, a third of that, for my students. I know they will not leave my class dreaming of being an English teacher. I know they will not go out and buy every Barry Hannah, Miranda July, Mary Karr book they can find.*** I know that they don’t think Shakespeare is cool or that Old English is easy. But I want so badly for them to think something, to learn something and most importantly, to feel something. That is what reading and writing does that no other subject really can, it makes you feel. I want my students to have read something, even if it was just a page and the rest was Sparknoted**** I hope they read it and had to look inward at themselves in a way they hadn’t before. We have talked about pride and greed and lust and love and death and creation and isolation and abandonment and fear-- oh goodness have we talked about fear. The most fearful thing, after all, is that someone can look at us and see us for who we truly are. Reading is that, it forces you to look inward. I want them so badly to have studied these themes and thought, I know what he/she feels, I have never killed anyone to become king, but I know how it feels to want something you can't have or I know what it feels like to be alienated, I know what it feels like to reach out and have no one reach back-- I didn't know other people ever felt that way.


I personally fear that I did nothing but show them how to write a proper thesis statement and insert page numbers on a Word doc.

A student from the other 10th grade teacher’s class said that all we do is color in my class. He said this to two of my girls who are not making very good grades and that all they have to do is stay in the lines in my coloring books and they will get an A. My teacher friend teaches the class that this conversation was taking place in. She said the girls stood up for me, but mostly for the rigor of my class.
“It is, like, hard. Like, we really have to read and learn stuff. She grades our essays hard and she makes us like, go deeper”
“Yeah, you don’t even know. It is a hard class and we are trying really hard to make good grades. It is hard.”
                         
The girls also told me about this the next day. We joked as a class about if that was actually the case, than they should all have made A’s on the test I just handed back, which they did not.


Being the young, new teacher I am an easy target. 
Being the young, new teacher means I will quip right back at you. 

My teacher friend said I should come meet this boy, the naysayer/hater, so I did.
Teacher Friend introduced us: “Boy (name omitted to protect his identity), this is Mrs. Savery. She wanted to meet you.”
I smiled big, gave a firm hand-shake and said, “Hi, Boy. I hear you really want to come to my class to color.”
He looked at me wide eyed and shocked, “Uhm, no.”
“Really? I think you should just stop by sometime. I have plenty of extra coloring books if you want a break from Mrs. Other 10th Grade Teacher’s class.”
“I like Mrs. Other 10th Grade Teacher’s class.”
“Oh, that’s great! I will let her know. But in case you need a break from all of your learning and test taking, I have all of the Crayola crayons you can imagine and we don’t even have grades. Just stick figures.”
Still shocked and stammering he said, “Oh, okay.”
“Okay, great! Well, come by sometime. It was so nice to meet you!”

My girls, who were listening from the hallway, all hugged me after like it was an episode of Saved by the Bell and I had confronted the bully. They thought it was, like, so awesome. Which it kind of was.
(Boss, if you are reading this, please don't fire me. I was standing up for my students! I was standing up for literature!)

What was even better was that the next day a few students stayed after class to tell me how much they had learned this year and what a good teacher they thought I was.
“I would take your class every year if I could. Even if there was a coloring class, I would take yours instead!”

What did we learn from this, class?
We learned that teachers talk. That you shouldn’t talk about what you don’t know.  That maybe I have done something for my students.

And don’t mess with the teacher in the red-soled shoes.







*Reading Larry Brown's Big Bad Love; which is not, in fact, about love being big or bad. Well, maybe a little bad.
** Reading "Up In Michigan" after I told them that Gertrude Stein told Hemingway it was the cruelest story she had ever read. And it is pretty cruel. So of course, they wanted to read it.
*** All amazing authors, very contemporary and not for everyone.
****Sparknoted: a verb meaning read the first and last page of a book and used Sparknotes for the rest.

The Flying Corgi

Polly and I made the journey to Florida together for Spring Training. We almost didn't make it, however,  due to heinous lines at the airport-- thank you United and Continental for merging, it sure made things go at an excruciatingly slow pace. I cried to a security guard that my flight was leaving in 15 minutes (true) and I hadn't seen my husband in a month (exaggeration). He said no passengers could be expedited, no exceptions. Real tears ensued at this point. The twelve people in front of me felt compassion towards the crying girl holding the puppy and let me cut. I then broke Olympic Gold Medal records sprinting through the airport to get to my gate, which was the very last one because, really, why would anything about traveling be easy?

If you have more than 4 people working, things would probably go faster, IAH. 

We made it safe and sound and Joe was happy to see his girls. Let the record reflect that he hugged Polly before me, a gesture I will not soon forget.


Polly flew the weekend before last to visit my sister and various friends in Oxford. She was great except on the flight back I fell asleep and she barked until I woke up. It was pretty rude, if you ask me.


Currently, she is chewing my shoe laces which will inevitably lead to me telling Joe I need new tennies. Chew those shoes up all you want, just stay away from my Louboutins.

Exhausted from traveling and shoe-chewing

I have experienced a different side of life in the past week or so. Not only did I become one of those women that travels with her dog, I got a taste of what it is like to not work (I feel there is some cross-over between these two categories).


After dropping Joe off at the field while it is still dark--crazy fans already lined up at the fence to try and get autographs-- I have had loads of free time till the game starts. I have gotten to do things I don't get that much time to do at home such as go back to bed, work out, read terrible magazines, watch TV,  pick out clothes and make new outfits that Rachel Zoe* would even be proud of, learn what all the buttons are on my iPad and go get my nails done. I have to say, it has been really nice having the down time. The obvious perk of getting to spend time with Joe is priority, but I am seeing what it will be like this summer and what it would be like if I were to stop work and travel with him full time.

At the famous Ceviche, note my cool outfit 

One wife here is a retired Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. She and her husband, who shall remain nameless, got married in November and she will move with him to Philadelphia and travel to the games that she can when they play away.
One girlfriend quit her job as a body builder ( I am sure there are more professional terms for this) and worked some at Nieman Marcus in Tampa, then got transferred to  Nieman Marcus not far from the AAA team and Philadelphia last year. She said that she has gone in and worked once a week or so since getting to spring training with her boyfriend. Both have given up their careers for the time being to travel with their husband/boyfriend. The most time they will spend away from their respective partners will be when a road trip goes especially long, meaning about 6 days. I am insanely jealous of them; however, I have a different situation.


 I  have the job I wanted since I was in elementary school. Not a filler job that I am trying to eventually work up towards, no, I got THE job I want. And while I am exhausted and stressed and have found myself locking my classroom door to cry once in a while, I don't know that I could trade that for being here. Joe and I have rationalized that with the summer and the off season, we are really only apart 4 1/2 months. If I can travel to see him every other weekend, than that isn't too bad. Of course, that is a big if. If I am able to find flights that I don't have to miss work. If I am able to find the energy to get on a plane every other week only to arrive at my destination at midnight, then return Sunday night as late as I can as to spend time with Joe only to find myself wanting to take my coffee intravenously Monday morning.

                                                This is what I miss when I am not with Joe


I went to a wives' conference over Spring Break put on by PAO (Professional Athletes Outreach) and Baseball Chapel. It was so insightful to meet other wives in this position. Some  women have grown children who they themselves are already playing pro ball, and some are newlyweds like myself. The primary was discussion about keeping perspective and being able to find God in everything we do, and if we don't, change courses. Our speaker Rene Taubensee made a point that really struck a cord in me: Women at home don't get this. This is probably the hardest thing, seeing friendships sift out differently than I ever thought they would. Being gone almost every weekend takes up a lot of social time to cultivate my friendships at home. There were some great, inspiring women that I met that I look forward to becoming better friends with in the baseball world-- but what about  my roots are in Houston (or Oxford, for that matter)?


PAO link: http://www.pao.org/
Baseball Chapel link: http://baseballchapel.org/


Basically I have made my home in between a rock and a hard place. I am away from my husband and feel more alone than I ever have, but have the job I went to college for and have wanted since I thought I was a March** sister from Little Women. And not only do I want my job, I feel needed here. I feel like I serve a greater purpose than my own professional ambition right now. Or, I am with my husband and we can grow in our marriage and love while I potentially go crazy because I don't know how be satisfied with setting my schedule around when my dog needs to poop or getting manicures or  Zumba class***-- I fear I would not be a productive, happy wife, nay, human being, if I did not have the intellectual stimulation I do now--


But does staying here make me a bad wife?


(By the way, in my head right now Sarah Jessica Parker is narrating this like she does when Carrie muses on Sex and the City)

I wish this is how I looked when I typed

So I pray for patience in all my trials, rest when I am able to find it, strength when I am weary, overwhelming love for my husband and my job and hope that United will offer frequent flyer miles for dogs.




I have started taking a creative writing class at Rice. It is a continuing education class which means I am the youngest of 18 aspiring and  inexperienced writers. Stay tuned for my observations from class.






* Rachel Zoe = the styling equivalent to Moses, she leads thousand through the wilderness of the unfashionable world. At some point, I will write a fashion blog post. If you need anyone to help you pick out clothes or go shopping for you, contact me.
**Wonderful book and movie, Christian Bale and Winona Ryder in the early 90's-- why doesn't Jo choose Laurie!!??
***Don't get me wrong,  I love manicures, pedicures and Zumba. I do not love poop.

When I Was Your Age

If given a chance to take back some mistakes, I think most of us would take back things from our four years we each spent in high school. Poor choices in study habits, peer pressure, romantic relationships or attempted romantic relationships and even fashion-- yes, looking back at high school sometimes seems a parade of our most glossy mistakes.

Which makes it very fun to teach high school and watch all of these same mistakes being made. And by fun I mean difficult, stressful, insightful and maturing.

In short, I feel like I am doing an improvisational comedy show five days a week.

Some highlights of this, my first year teaching, thus far:

I proudly typed my syllabus and course objectives, wording it to make sure that the class seemed rigorous and I seemed strict and intimidating. I tried to hide any evidence of my youthfulness since my mere presence spoke for itself.  People told me not to smile for the first quarter; some said year, some said month--- but the general message was don’t smile. The bell rang for my first class on my first day in my first “real job.” I handed out the syllabus and gave the same verbal overview to all of my classes: I will reward hard work, but I will punish laziness, you must read the material, writing does not have a formula, you will respect each other and me, you will not get off task on your laptop, you do not “get” grades-- you earn them. I finished my lecture, lips tightly closed over my teeth, and asked if there were any questions. A few brave hands shoot up:

“Is it true you are dating a professional baseball player?”
“What was it like being in a sorority at Ole Miss?”
“Did you like SEC football?”

And my favorite:
“Are your shoes Christian Louboutin?”

I garnered their respect from the start.

When I got the job, I was ecstatic. I had wanted to teach high school English since I was taking high school English. There was the promise of a creative writing course in the future, too. I was thrilled to mold and shape students the way I had been by my amazing and engaging English teachers. I was proud to tell people when they asked what I was doing after graduation, “teaching” “Oh, what age?” “Sophomores and juniors” “High schoolers?!” “Yes...?” “Those boys are going to be all over you.”

Gross. I decided this was a myth, something made up by Britney Spears music videos and The O.C. I wouldn’t have students like that. They would see me for my brain and my brain only.

For the most part I was right, I was able to sass back at them and gave them a seating chart and graded them hard enough on their first paper to prove whatever it was I needed to prove to them. But there is something about boys ages 14-23 (yes, I realize the giant age bracket and that it includes guys my age) that makes them nearly intolerable.

Around homecoming, this particular student came in my room and asked if I would wear his jersey on Homecoming Friday. “What in the world? Are you trying to get me fired? I don’t think you should ask things like that!!” He responded that all the teachers do it, it is a tradition. Tradition my left foot! I quickly e-mailed my other young teacher friends and it was confirmed that teachers do wear players’ jerseys, but that asking on MONDAY of Homecoming week was jumping the gun a little bit. Even though all the other teachers had on jerseys, it still felt a little weird.

Something that really makes my day, and by that I mean makes me really insecure, is being mistook for a student. Moms do this a lot. Of course, they themselves can often times look like students, or at least much closer to my age. Yes, hot-tennis-mom is not a creation of the writers for Desperate Housewives, they exist in the real world. Bless them for not working and being able to do so much for the school (luncheons, goodybags, breakfasts, cupcakes-- seriously, they take care of us and we would be a public school without them), but I would appreciate you recognizing, if nothing else, I am in a pencil skirt and a blazer-- the kids are in jeans and flip-flops.

These same well-meaning parents have had some glorious comments such as:
Laziness is a learning disability, my son has it and you need to be sensitive to it*
I know that all the assignments are online, but could you e-mail me what they are everyday?
My son will be grounded if he doesn’t have an A, I just think you should take that into consideration when grading.
Do you think you could change the research paper from Macbeth to the play they read last year because I know my daughter read that one?
My daughter said I needed to come to Parent Night to see your shoes, she said that is all she looks at in class.

In closing:
Our boss told us this quote in our first faculty meeting : It is the job of the parent to prepare the child for the path, not prepare the path for the child. I love this because it can translate to so many other aspects of life. How often do we want to change our circumstances before we admit we need to change ourselves? A LOT.

I hope I am helping prepare each child.

And if not, well, at least I tried while wearing great shoes.

*This was not said directly to me, but I heard from an eye witness.