At the school in which I student teach it is Spirit Week. Know what this means?

The crazy student teacher dresses up for EVERY day.

Guess how many others dressed up?

Ten. Ten others.

The difference between the crazy student teacher and The Ten is significant.

For her, we’re not talking the cute little “Sound of Music” dirndls. There are no casually-drawn “winehouse” or “slept-in-smudge” or “soft smoke” eyeliner looks. No straightened hair to be Regina George. There are zero flattering clothes.


We have Steve Irwin, for Hero Day, featuring a clumpy teenaged-boy-after-basketball blond wig which suctions to the brow. A father’s XL adventure button-up and pinned-up cargo shorts.

There is so much extra material hugging the waist, the buttock area looks extra maximus.

A crocodile–aptly named “Hudsen” by an eager set of senior boys in second block–tucked under the sweaty armpit.

And today, we had Villain day. Whereupon I (the crazy student teacher) dressed like this:


Almost exactly like that. Ms. Trenchbull from Matilda. White towel tucked into the XL “Canada” hoodie, wide belt, baggy harem pants, nasty tube socks, and clunky boots.

Cheek wart and all. And you can bet I wore that expression to whosoever dared make eye contact.

I’m fairly certain my first block didn’t notice the change. Iffy with the second.

I did have a nice time of it, though, waiting for 135 pages of my Unit Plan to print next to the freshmen English teacher, who was patiently waiting for her 2-paged handout.

My favorite moment of the day happened after the school day had ended, a moment so glorified and memorialized in my mind as to warrant a blog post.

I was waddling out to my car, the halls devoid of students and the parking lot empty. The day had been a good one, but tiring, and the tight bun which had peeled back the lids of my eyes for a number of hours was exerting its toll on my psyche.

I opened the door of my car and scooted in, chucking my heavy bag to the passenger seat. As I placed the car keys into the ignition and let it roar to life, the sun struck the windshield of a car parallel to mine, and the rays shot into my face.

“Mrumph,” I spouted, and reached for the pair of sunglasses on my dash. What I put on my face was the equivalent of the cheapest, most aviator-like pair of sunglasses I could find at the Dillion’s gas station.

I hooked my phone up into the aux cord, pressed shuffle, and stuck the car in reverse, peeling out of the parking lot and away from the evil windshield rays.

Then. Glory.

The song “Do I Wanna Know?” by the Arctic Monkeys came on.

And suddenly the whole world slowed.

I turned out of the parking lot and headed down the long stretch of highway and the world was in slow-motion. 

Specifically 86 bpm.

I was Ms. Trenchbull, dressed in a ridiculous sweatshirt-towel-harem pants outfit, wearing incredibly cheap aviators, and I was cruising to Arctic Monkeys like I owned the world.

I tossed my bun back and forth and pursed my lips at a passing car.

It was good. Satisfying. I love spirit week.


Peace and Blessings,



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