It's been a lovely summer, it really has.
(Except for the "it was so hot for most of the summer in Toronto that it made me want to chop my head off and stick it in the freezer for a good long while" bit.)
And so we have Labour Day. The last day of sleeping in, last day of sloth, last day of possibly not wearing pants a for a good chunk of a weekday.
It's alright, though. I really do enjoy the new challenge that each school year offers. Rumour has it we're getting another, ahem, interesting crew of grade 9's this year. Guess who's teaching several dozen of them? That's right, it's your ol' buddy J.
The night of Labour Day, I'm usually a little nervous, a little excited, and can't get to sleep too easily. Oddly enough, it's after 8 at the moment, and I'm not getting any of that — yet, at least.
An old department head of mine, who taught for over 30 years and retired because he didn't want or have to put up with the bullshit that a certain department member of ours threw and continues to throw around, once said: "If you're not even a little bit nervous on the night before the first day of school, you're not doing your job right."
Because I think I do my job (reasonably) well, maybe it's just a matter of time before I'll get the butterflies. Or maybe I'm just riding on a blissfull cloud because my Tigers just swept the third-place White Sox and nimbly got by the second-place Indians (aka "Cleveland Racist Nicknames") this afternoon. Or maybe it's all the booze I've been throwing down nonstop since getting back from the Great Flat Southwest this afternoon.
Either way... tomorrow morning, it's gonna be me and about 90 other grown-ups vs. 1500 teenagers. GAME ON.