I've been craving the warm cheese, zesty tomato sauce, and crisp crust for days, but my favorite kind, the kind we got almost every Friday night when I was a kid, the kind that brings back all sorts of warm, fuzzy memories of home and safety and love, costs $4.25, and I just can't justify spending that kind of money right now. It's time to quit trying to comfort myself with food anyway; this hasn't been a great summer for healthy eating habits and exercise, and that's now reflected in extra pounds and lethargy.
Classes start Monday, and I'm not ready. I'm not ready for a first period class in which none of my students are proficient in either reading or math, for ninth graders who already have two children, for the prospect that violent unrest in certain sections of town will spill over to school and make a dangerous situation worse, for administrators who've assured us it's ok that the schedule is screwed up since we shouldn't expect to teach anything meaningful until after Labor Day anyway. Monday morning I'll get up and try to do everything I can to help my students learn, but today I am scared and want a damn pizza.