Today was the last day of classes for the kiddies, which has me tickled quite pink (i.e., pinker than my normal pasty-ass Nordic/Celtic hue). Next week they write their exams, I mark 'em, I fill out their report card stuff, spend the next few days cleaning up stuff and preparing for September, and... well... two months of sleeping in, watching baseball games in exotic locations, heading off to Saskatoon for a few days, and doing a whole bunch of generalized goofing-off.
I know what you might be thinking:
Hey, jerkface! Nice gig you got there, with your two months off every summer. I wish I had two months off every summer, two weeks at Christmas, and a week in March!
A four-pronged retort usually accompanies observations such as this.
- If you do your job right, you're thoroughly burnt-out by the end of classes in mid-June. You're supposed to give your all for your kids; most of my colleagues do, and we're pretty out-of-gas by the time exams roll around.
- Besides, what are you going to do, keep the kids in school 12 months a year? I don't see that happening anytime soon.
- Our holidays always coincide with when the kids are off. This means we can only travel during peak periods, when everything is double the price. And no, we can't just "take a week in November" — it just doesn't work that way.
- If teaching is such a sweet, cushy gig with kickass holidays and a comfy pension, you are much more than welcome to join our ranks.
...what's that? Not so crazy about being locked in rooms with two dozen crazed teenagers 180 times a year, and having homework most nights of your professional career? Then I suggest you re-think your witty quip.
At any rate, less gushing and more drinking. Bottoms-up! I survived another one.
ADDENDUM: This is extremely interesting. Link courtesy of frequent site-contributor ECB.