Ok, not quite. I’m a teacher candidate. But close enough. Incidentally, for those not in the know, the Jew thing just started to be way too much work, so I’ve peaced out on that and have decided that, rather than date 17 year olds, I should just teach them.
Teach them ‘bout my wang.
Sorry. That was inappropriate and probably pretty illegal.
We take several courses in our teachable subjects (drama + music = whatafag), psychology, electives and our education seminar, where we actually learn how to be teachers. Our instructor in this class is like our den mother and also Greek, leading me to call her My Big Fat Greek Mamma. In my head. And in my dreams…
Sadly, her own BFGM passes away a short while ago and she had to leave us for two weeks in order to fly back to Greece for the funeral. She probably did some sun-bathing, too. But mostly the funeral thing. Probably.
Before our first post-Hellenic class, I was a wreck. I don’t do well with those that are grieving, let alone a woman that I had known less than a month yet still desired to rest my head on her bosom. I’m not really sure why but I kind of worship her. It might be that she can’t pronounce ‘sheet’ and it always comes out as ‘shit’. She is my world.
I thought for days beforehand what I would say upon entering the classroom, but nothing short of flinging myself at her feet seemed appropriate. On the day of Her return, I walked into the class and OF COURSE BITCH WAS ALL IN BLACK. Fan-fucking-tastic. As if I wasn’t nervous enough, diva was practically wearing a veil of grief.
The legs and liver were shaking as I approached her, still undecided as to how I should convey my Big Fat Jewy Sympathy. Then tumbling out of my mouth came:
“Hi. You good?”
Conjure, if you will, the myriad of things I could have said. Make a top 5 list. I dare ya. Now, is “Hi. You good?” anywhere on that list? No, it is not because it is the single douchiest thing a person could say to his mentor/new mother in her hour of need. It is also further evidence that I am never ever cool. Upon hearing the words escape my lips, I was filled with instant shame and regret. I wanted to get a poison arrow to the heel or feed myself to a hydra or choke on a moussaka sandwich. Anything to remove the sting of being the single awkwardest boy this side of the Aegean Sea. I prayed for the Olympian gods to rein down fiery ambrosia on my balding-at-an-even-quicker-pace-if-that's-even-possible head, to inflect such Promethean measures that my callow, stupid-headed poopy-facedness would ne'er rear its ugly 7-headed face again.
Then she turned and looked at me, closed her eyes, gave her head a little nod and said, "Yes, my beautiful angel darling. Is okay."