…Has March ever been a time to expect 90º weather? Around the same fucking time last year, I was in layers, making mad dashes to my car to escape the rain. La Niña? El Niño? Aside from watching Chris Farley in a lavender spandex jumpsuit being superimposed across a screen, I never thought that such strange sky and oceanic phenomena would be responsible for this kind of nonsense. “California weather,” “Climate Change,” yak..yak..yak..
Since last we spoke, there hasn’t been a moment’s rest. I set out to participate in Lent this year, getting the smudge at Church, giving up video games, Social Media, and Ha-ha, and no sooner does my living situation make an abrupt and undesired change. Mom, a habitual nester, found occasion for our family to move yet again. Chalking it up to Dad’s deteriorating physical condition (his back, his knees, and hips giving up with age), Mom somehow found a place with an ADU just down the street. And while this degree of independence would be cause for celebration -especially on a single teacher’s salary- the shuffle between two houses within less than half a mile apart has made for the longest unloading period in the unreasonable number of episodes in which we’ve been moving. Yes, I kvetch entirely too much- My current arrangement would be the envy of many, if not for the humbling prospects of being in my parents’ good graces. But all the same, I would imagine stability would be a better prospect, a stronger vector into the sort of independent departure for which I’ve longed since my twenties. Therefore, any movement in this regard is an embarrassment. And while such an arrangement isn’t terribly uncommon these days, and I’m grateful for not having to be at the mercy of the other dastardly landlords in the San Jose area, the sort of independence for which I’ve longed in my youth now seems an unlikely proposal; I’ll never be that single young bachelor who brings home a girlfriend and plays the guitar for her
Likewise, I ended up going to Yosemite as a chaperone for the eighth graders yet again. Though I’m accustomed to the rigmarole associated with a work week’s time away from the usual grind, being on another person’s schedule and making sure the kids are well cared for during this window, it’s drudgery in its purest form, in which I’m at the caboose of some hiking group while the “nature guide” goes off on some scripted program by which the students could fulfill some of the CA state framework before the end of the year. And the kids unabashedly say that they’d rather be at home playing video games or something of the sort…I don’t blame them....This year, however, turned out to be rather delightful. Though there weren’t too many deviations from previous years, the group to which I was assigned was made up of mild-mannered and well-adjusted kids who seemed to get along just fine. The nature guide made the excursion enjoyable for them, and the other check boxes weren’t terribly hard to mark. Plus, the stipend I’ll be getting in April is always a plus. Still, during an intense moving process, I’d rather be at home with my cat, playing guitar, drawing, spending time with friends, etc. And I’m glad it’s behind me.
Upon my return, I’ve found my own students to be somewhat unfocused and restless. It takes more effort than usual to get them back on task, and I find myself louder, catching students in the sorts of activities that would’ve caused my jaw to unhinge in previous years. I’ve always been known as the “nice teacher,” the “chill guy” whose class is a joy. Unfortunately, in the frame of a week, I’ve given out more trash-duty slips than all of last year. And the truth is, I don’t know any phenomenon to which this can be owed. Perhaps the maddening state of the world with its wars, its 90º weather, the price at the pump, the enshitification of just about everything, or parents are just simply afraid to discipline their kids, my job has never been more frustrating. Last year’s batch, while immature in their own right, seemed very well-adjusted and kind. This year, however, I feel as if that rosy outlook has palpably collapsed....I don’t blame the kids, no matter what. These are indeed rough times.
Likewise, my commitment to Lent has amplified the difficulties of singleness when my heart has been weighed down by the thoughts of dying alone since boyhood. As I’ve abstained from the sorts of things that usually lessen the pressures of loneliness and hopelessness, I’ve found myself in a rough patch from the perspective of mental health. The talk to God grows worried and harsh, as I’m thinking about what I don’t have. And what makes matters worse is the fact that I met my ex around this time last year, and the calendar laughs at me with each passing day. And while I don’t miss the emotional breakdowns, the alcoholism, or the histrionics, each box on the calendar mocks my desolation, reminding me that I am a 41-year old virgin…At least I haven’t settled for anybody I find unattractive and/or unkind. ‘Tis truly better to be lonely than sorry…but the virtue in loneliness does little to fucking diminish the pain. I have to wonder if I’m sinning so greatly that the God I worship is ignoring my cries, or if I’m just cowardly for not diving into the fray again. I’m sick of being where I am, and sick of the neurochemical prison by which language and social cues around complete strangers has been traditionally difficult.
I don’t know what else to say.
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