summer school is for suckers...

...namely--me.
I taught summer school last year and even went to the trouble of writing in red marker a fairly large note to myself to UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES TEACH SUMMER SCHOOL EVER EVER AGAIN. I posted the note on my bathroom mirror and looked at every single morning and every single night for nearly 350 days.
Last year I knew knew knew! that come the following May when the sign up sheet was passed around at the faculty meeting, I would think: Oh, it wasn't that bad. It's quick money. It's two weeks. Who really needs to sleep in that much? Who really needs 2 months in a row off?
Well, the note was a premptive move that failed. Miserably. Why? Because while it is true that I saw it on the bathroom mirror as I washed my face every morning and every night for a year, I also saw the slightest-oh-just-the-very-slightest burgeoning of what the fine lines across my forehead (F#%&!!!!zzzz).
Which brings me to my next and not wholly unrelated point: A few days shy of my birthday I can say that 31 is the new 30. 30 does not seem different than 29, but my oh my by the time one reaches 31 things have undeniably begun to fall apart (or at least crease a bit).
Which brings me back to my first point. I, despite the clever note to self, signed up for summer school again this year. I realized that in only two days I could make enough money to cover my first vial of Botox. Now, some (mom!)may say that getting Botox at the age of 30 is premature. Others (liars!) may say that it is something they would never ever do. I, however, am neither "some" nor "others," and so I called my dermatologist thinking myself a very prescient* girl. Call it pre-corrective treatment. Spending 80 hours with the flunkees, the scoundrels and the general delinquents when I could be floating in the pool at Mandalay, I reasoned, would be a small price to pay.