Divine by Mistake

1

Finally, on my way. My Mustang felt sweet as it zipped down the nearly empty highway. Why is it that cars seem to drive best when they're freshly washed? Leaning down, I popped a CD into the player, skipped forward to track 6 and began singing at the top of my very tone-deaf lungs with Eponine about the futility of love. As the next song keyed up, I swung around a slow-moving Chevy and yelled, "God, I love being a teacher!"
It was the first day of June, and the summer stretched before me, pristine and virginal.
"All those days of sleeping in to go!"
Just saying it aloud made me happy. In my ten years of teaching I've notice that teachers tend to have a bad habit of talking to themselves. I hypothesize that this is because we talk for a living, and feel safe speaking our feeling aloud. Or it could be that most of us, especially the high school teacher variety, are just weird as shit. Only the slightly insane would choose a career teaching teenagers. I can just see my best friend Suzanna's face screw up and the involuntary shudder move down her spine as I relate the latest trials and tribulations of the high school English classroom.
"God, Sha, they're so.....so...hormone filled. Eew!"
Suzanna is a typical college professor snob, but I love her anyway. She just doesn't appreciate the many and varied opportunities for humorous interludes that teenagers provide on a daily basis.