In August, Hubs and I decided to move apartments. We had lived in our first married apartment for approximately five months and that was approximately five months too long. We high-tailed it out of there the second we were released from our contract and found an apartment that is further away, more expensive, smaller, has no washer or dryer hook ups, and has parking spaces the size of my thumb.
The good news: It's not haunted. So we moved on in.
One day I really would love to share with the world why our apartment was haunted. But I can't. Look at it this way: some things are too sexy and romantic to share with the world. Some things are too sacred and spiritual to share with the world. And some things are too absolutely terrifying to share with the world. This expereince falls into the latter category. And that will have to do for your explanation of why you will probably never get the details on the haunted house.
So now I have traded in the terror of weird noises, sleepless nights, and unexplained occurrences for the inconvenience of driving to a laundromat, constantly searching for quarters, and lugging dirty linens around.
Tuesday during lunch I was complaining to my friend and co-worker, Darby, of my laundry woes.
"It's not that it's that hard to take the laundry to a laundromat... and my mom's always willing to let me use her washer... it's just that I never have a two or three hour block that I feel like dedicating to waiting around for my laundry."
"Use the school's washing machine," Darby presented an easy solution.
"What? The school has a washing machine? Why have I never known about this?"
"Oh yah, we use it for jerseys every once in awhile, but most of the time it just sits there."
Darby's a P.E. teacher, so she has Copper Hills privileges and knowledge that I can only dream of.
"Hmmm...." I thought about it. Get my laundry done while I worked? Kill two birds with one stone? This sounded too good to be true.
"Seriously. Just bring your clothes in next time you have to do laundry and I'll show you where it's at." Darby urged. And that was the end of that conversation.
The next day at lunch I sent Darby a text, "I've got my laundry. Can I bring it down?"
I don't think Darby was expecting me to take her that seriously.
"Uh... okay. Sure." She responded.
"I need help, though. I need to avoid as many hallways as possible."
Now... I'm one of the most confident people I know. I've got no problem dressing up dressing up like a zombie, spilling the details of my love life out on a public blog, or recommending a girl to take my wifely spot should I kick the bucket early. But carrying baskets of dirty underwear and socks through hallways filled with sixteen and seventeen year olds?
That requires a level of confidence and self assurance the like I have never before seen.
Not even I can do that with my head held up high.
Not even I!
So we concocted a plan to avoid as many hallways as possible. I would drive around the school with my laundry, park close to the main entrance, and then hurry in while the students were eating lunch. Most students wouldn't be down that way, and I could sneak in to the laundry facility pretty much unspotted.
I drove around. I parked. I heaved two full baskets of dirty clothes out of the back of my car. I walked in.
Oh, shoot.
Eject.
Abort.
Stop mission.
Terminate plans.
A group of junior boys, all who are in my seventh period class, were entering the high school at the same time I was. I stopped in my tracks and considered turning around right that second and putting my clothes back in my car.
But it was too late.
They had spotted me.
"Hey Teacher! Whaddup? Want a fry?"
"No, no, I'm good..." I would have to fake this. Quickly my mind came up with a plan. An excuse. A lie.
"You know me... just helping Coach Cowles with some laundry for the swim kids. I'm always helping out when I can! That's just the kind of person I am!" I was struggling mightily, trying to carry both baskets down the halls. Sixteen year old boys being who they are, not a one of them offered help. I hobbled. I readjusted. I lost my grip for a second.
And then.
Dropping out of the top of the laundry basket was a sock and a blouse. A blouse that I had worn yesterday.
"Wait a second..." Josh said as he bent down to pick up the clothes. (Now they offer help, useless boys!)
I could tell they were onto me.
"Didn't you wear this yesterday?" Josh asked. Say what you will about teenage boys, they pay a lot more attention than you think.
"No, this is a friend's... Coach Cowles... swim...." The lies weren't coming fast enough. I was stuck.
Josh and his crew of buddies laughed, "A teacher doing her laundry at school! Imagine that! Now that's something you don't see every day!" And just like that, they were off, the whole lot of them, into an endless sea of pimply faced and hormonally charged teenagers, leaving me embarrassed and alone in the hallway.
I often wonder how my students will remember me ten years down the road. Thirty years down the road. How will I have shaped them and their high school experience?
"Remember that teacher? She was the one who really made me love and appreciate good literature."
"Remember that teacher? She taught me how to truly write a quality essay and how to come up with a killer thesis statement."
"Remember that teacher? She was my funnest teacher ever- she always had something awesome prepared for us!"
"Remember that teacher? She sure didn't put up with a lot, but she taught me how to be responsible and get work done."
or
"Remember that teacher? She was that crazy one who carried her dirty laundry through the hallways to use the school's washer."
The good news: It's not haunted. So we moved on in.
One day I really would love to share with the world why our apartment was haunted. But I can't. Look at it this way: some things are too sexy and romantic to share with the world. Some things are too sacred and spiritual to share with the world. And some things are too absolutely terrifying to share with the world. This expereince falls into the latter category. And that will have to do for your explanation of why you will probably never get the details on the haunted house.
So now I have traded in the terror of weird noises, sleepless nights, and unexplained occurrences for the inconvenience of driving to a laundromat, constantly searching for quarters, and lugging dirty linens around.
Tuesday during lunch I was complaining to my friend and co-worker, Darby, of my laundry woes.
"It's not that it's that hard to take the laundry to a laundromat... and my mom's always willing to let me use her washer... it's just that I never have a two or three hour block that I feel like dedicating to waiting around for my laundry."
"Use the school's washing machine," Darby presented an easy solution.
"What? The school has a washing machine? Why have I never known about this?"
"Oh yah, we use it for jerseys every once in awhile, but most of the time it just sits there."
Darby's a P.E. teacher, so she has Copper Hills privileges and knowledge that I can only dream of.
"Hmmm...." I thought about it. Get my laundry done while I worked? Kill two birds with one stone? This sounded too good to be true.
"Seriously. Just bring your clothes in next time you have to do laundry and I'll show you where it's at." Darby urged. And that was the end of that conversation.
The next day at lunch I sent Darby a text, "I've got my laundry. Can I bring it down?"
I don't think Darby was expecting me to take her that seriously.
"Uh... okay. Sure." She responded.
"I need help, though. I need to avoid as many hallways as possible."
Now... I'm one of the most confident people I know. I've got no problem dressing up dressing up like a zombie, spilling the details of my love life out on a public blog, or recommending a girl to take my wifely spot should I kick the bucket early. But carrying baskets of dirty underwear and socks through hallways filled with sixteen and seventeen year olds?
That requires a level of confidence and self assurance the like I have never before seen.
Not even I can do that with my head held up high.
Not even I!
So we concocted a plan to avoid as many hallways as possible. I would drive around the school with my laundry, park close to the main entrance, and then hurry in while the students were eating lunch. Most students wouldn't be down that way, and I could sneak in to the laundry facility pretty much unspotted.
I drove around. I parked. I heaved two full baskets of dirty clothes out of the back of my car. I walked in.
Oh, shoot.
Eject.
Abort.
Stop mission.
Terminate plans.
A group of junior boys, all who are in my seventh period class, were entering the high school at the same time I was. I stopped in my tracks and considered turning around right that second and putting my clothes back in my car.
But it was too late.
They had spotted me.
"Hey Teacher! Whaddup? Want a fry?"
"No, no, I'm good..." I would have to fake this. Quickly my mind came up with a plan. An excuse. A lie.
"You know me... just helping Coach Cowles with some laundry for the swim kids. I'm always helping out when I can! That's just the kind of person I am!" I was struggling mightily, trying to carry both baskets down the halls. Sixteen year old boys being who they are, not a one of them offered help. I hobbled. I readjusted. I lost my grip for a second.
And then.
Dropping out of the top of the laundry basket was a sock and a blouse. A blouse that I had worn yesterday.
"Wait a second..." Josh said as he bent down to pick up the clothes. (Now they offer help, useless boys!)
I could tell they were onto me.
"Didn't you wear this yesterday?" Josh asked. Say what you will about teenage boys, they pay a lot more attention than you think.
"No, this is a friend's... Coach Cowles... swim...." The lies weren't coming fast enough. I was stuck.
Josh and his crew of buddies laughed, "A teacher doing her laundry at school! Imagine that! Now that's something you don't see every day!" And just like that, they were off, the whole lot of them, into an endless sea of pimply faced and hormonally charged teenagers, leaving me embarrassed and alone in the hallway.
I often wonder how my students will remember me ten years down the road. Thirty years down the road. How will I have shaped them and their high school experience?
"Remember that teacher? She was the one who really made me love and appreciate good literature."
"Remember that teacher? She taught me how to truly write a quality essay and how to come up with a killer thesis statement."
"Remember that teacher? She was my funnest teacher ever- she always had something awesome prepared for us!"
"Remember that teacher? She sure didn't put up with a lot, but she taught me how to be responsible and get work done."
or
"Remember that teacher? She was that crazy one who carried her dirty laundry through the hallways to use the school's washer."
Well, I guess it beats living in a haunted house, right?
