I would never want to be a teacher because it would make me feel old.
Sure, every girl dreams of being mistaken for older (who wouldn't want to be able to get their license/go out clubbing/hang out with those hot senior guys/all sorts of other fun things earlier?) but being called "Madame" ten times in one evening was more than enough. Apparently the oversized granny cardigan, thick-rimmed glasses, and messy bun were a bad idea- dressing for the part, but in the wrong way.
I have to admit, though, that the teacher voice I tried out- cheery and slightly manic, like an excited squirrel- didn't help either. I think I might have scared all the little kids away. Which wouldn't have been a bad thing, except I was supposed to be taking care of them at a school-organised babysitting event.
Now, I am not overly fond of children. Yes, they're cute... from a distance. Up close, you realise that hardened prison guards have nothing on fourth-grade queen bees. Two of the little girls that I was looking after were playing Junior Monopoly (I do not see the point of that game. I really don't. Why not go watch paint dry? It's just as fun, and educational too- you're learning about home repairs!) so I joined them, expecting to be asked to read to them or something equally innocuous. Instead, one of these girls, dressed in a mismatched princess costume, asked me what her gross return would be if she purchased the carrousel and, when I couldn't answer, threatened to pull my hair until I got a calculator.
It warms the heart, it really does.
If only the other highschools of the region could see us poor students volunteering like this. As the sole French school of the region, we're seen as the crazy party crowd. This probably is caused by our uniforms. We are, in fact, walking traffic beacons. No need for bus controllers when we're around; we stop traffic all on our own. Whoever decreed that schoolgirl costumes are sexy have evidently never seen the horror of a teenage girl dressed in an oversized yellow polo shirt tucked into a khaki skort that reaches past her knees accompanied high blue socks.
I'll leave you time to breathe after that horrifying image.
So why am I writing to you now? Because of a class at this same school. Now, you, sweet reader, are probably thinking, "Zia, why are you going there? Your fabulous fashion sense is just shining out of this blog. You could do so much better!" and then breaking into a cheerleading routine.
I answer, "Oh, dear reader. You are just so sweet. I'm relieved that my amazing qualities just shine through the computer like a ray of sunbeam illuminating your life! But actually, I like my school." Then I pause, allowing your disbelief time to die away. (Plus, I'm really enjoying the cheerleading routine. I've never seen anyone do the funky chicken quite like that.) "Going somewhere small has its advantages. Such as being allowed to have a class where your sole consistent task is, in fact, to keep a blog." (Ouch. That looked like it hurt. Maybe you should take some dance classes before trying to do a pyramid by yourself next time. How does that even work?)
Anyway, to make a long story short... well, as short as I can make it... I'm writing this for my Media Studies class, which I took because I thought it would be fun. (I just finished Physics. I think I'm entitled to a little fun. And all you people who say Physics is fun, you are LIARS. LIARS, I SAY. You should all be consigned to a prison filled with mutant squirrels who will chew on your toes. Or a black hole. That seems more Physics-ish.)