Lunchbox

Every August, Majken’s mom and my mom (both named Robin) discussed the budget for our annual back-to-school shopping trip. Being next-door neighbors and vaguely competitive best friends, equity was the only option. So much for discretion or individualized parenting, our block was socialist territory. The parental pipeline ranged anywhere from $100 to $200, which easily trumped anything we made babysitting for four bucks an hour.  Special years like ninth grade tipped the scales closer to two Benjamins, but only after much pleading: “but momuhhh, we’ve outgrown everything, and no one wears baggy jeans anymore. Don’t you want me to have friends?”  Brilliant persuasive reasoning, or so we thought. 

Before hoofing it to the mall, we plotted our spending and asked our dads for an extra $20.  The day was spent contemplating two for one corduroys from the Gap, five for $25 Abercrombie and Fitch underwear with weirdly sexual slogans meant to emblazon pre-teen butts, short denim skirts for imagined parties and tee shirts in one size too slutty.  Spare change scored us brightly colored folders and a fruity scent of Bath and Body Works lotion to keep in our shared locker.

We wanted the most bang for our buck because this was the stuff of fresh beginnings— materialistic armor to protect us from first day of school anxiety while simultaneously aiding in our tireless climb up the social ladder.  Items purchased with our funds gave us something to hold onto as we compared schedules, talked summer and tried to look cute in muted corduroy that seemed all wrong off the rack. We planted our converse-clad feet on the ground while social groups formed from nothing. Middle school and high school are the time-lapse photography version of real life: act quick or you might sit next to a weirdo in biology. 

Several Augusts later (and for three more after that), I drove my blue Subaru from the top of Oregon to the bottom of California just in time to slap sheets on my twin bed, buy a new Norton Anthology for about the same price as my former budget and head to class.  College is about playing blasé, acting like first days are child’s play while trying desperately to make all the pieces fit together without the help of parents.  Share your summer break escapades with floppy boys. Throw on a carelessly perfect ensemble that you definitely did not spend twenty minutes selecting.  Once clad, mine your post-modern vocabulary so you can spit something smart in American Lit. 101b even if you failed to complete the summer reading.  Feel the build-up of newness and the letdown of sameness as you slide back into routine.  But relish these last first days because once college is over, you’re done. 

Or not.

In a turn of events I never saw coming, my life still cycles around first days of school. In fact, I haven’t not had a first day of school since I was two and enrolled in Jewish preschool.  As a teacher, I’m mostly immune to the social pressures of the first day and probably spend too little time contemplating my outfit and doing my hair. I am pleased to say I have grown past inappropriate slogans on my butt, transitioned I hope to something less overt.  Somehow, though, the first day anxiety is still there, laced with pressures even more urgent: crafting seating charts, rolling out procedures that determine classroom functionality, remembering which periods I teach and that it’s important to eat something and pee during the ones I do not.  I must give off the impression that I am stern and no nonsense when in reality I’m scared shitless that I might mess this one up. Learn 75 names in a day or two.  Smile at children, but not too much.

At this point, I’m not sure what it would be like to lead a year-round life like most normal people. While I hesitate to describe the first day of school as pleasant—on either side of the educational fence—it does have this adrenaline that most other days of the year lack. So here we go again: my lunch is packed and my outfit is lying in a deflated LEL shape on my dresser. There are 75 photocopies on my desk, and I’m sleeping in my teacher stare.  Let’s get there.