Just One More Damn Thing To Make Me Feel Old

As some of you know, I'm prone to midlife crises. Being told I looked like the wonderful, yet older Susan Sarandon last summer put me into a tizzy.

I suppose some people have a crisis, buy the Boxster or botox--whatever the gender may be--and that's it. Finito.

Yet each time I think I'm coming to terms with my age, something like noticing the start of a double chin or mustache sets me off again. And so it happened once again the other day while being interviewed for a job.

When I was younger, more like the Damn-It-Janet Susan Sarandon,

I taught public high school.  Within a few years, I'd upgraded to teaching at Temple University Japan. Much as Susan upgraded to:

Afterwards, like Susan who took a small step downwards when she made:




I taught at the not-quite-as-prestigious, but still accredited institution of higher learning (whose Rockets football team beat the blue and gold off of the U of M Wolverines last fall) The University of Toledo.  


Once I had babies,  I began freelancing. In not much time I went from local publications to national ones such as Ladies' Home Journal and Woman's Day. And my pay jumped to new levels much like Susan's did with the success of this film:



Four years ago I took a gig doing narrative non-fiction on small school reform for KnowledgeWorks Foundation, with generous support from The Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. And like Susan with this movie:



my career reached a new high. Not only was I wined and dined during the gig (thanks Bill) but, along with my colleagues, won two national awards for writing!!!!  Yes, I am entitled to use exclamations marks here.


But according to Doug, Nietzsche says, "That which doesn't kill me, makes me take a nose dive." A few months ago the grant was finito and I started looking for work again.

The other day I had an interview to be a tutor for kids in the projects. (The black supervisor's words, not mine)  Yes, a tutor--not that there's anything wrong with that.

You look really familiar, I told the supervisor.

A lot of people say that, she replied.

But I didn't mean it in that way. She really did look familiar. So we talked about schools she'd attended and discovered she went to a junior high in which I taught, but a few years before I was there.

Still, this plagued me.

I remembered a girl in that junior high who was really enthusiastic about a poetry unit I presented. She was a good writer and we bonded immediately. The more I thought about it, I realized I taught the unit when I was an education student doing field experience, which would put me there at the time she attended.

I searched through my old files and found sample poems from the students. Her poem, signed, was on the first page.

Yep. I was being interviewed by a former student. 

Yep I was offered the job, took the job and am now I'm being supervised by a former student!!!!!  More exclamation entitlement.

Is there anything more...ah, let's see...the word humiliating comes to mind...than working for a former student?

Like the award winning actress Susan Sarandon who signed a deal with Revlon, my career took an age-dive:



I mean, what was next for this Grown-Up-But-Groupie-Like Aging Hippie Wilco-Stalking Couch Surfer prone to midlife crises?

I can only hope it isn't becoming one of these:






Anyway, the following day during orientation I showed the supervisor the poetry, and she lit up like her then 13-year old self.

I remember you!!  (The Black supervisor's exclamation marks, not mine)

You were that teacher!!--the one who did the poetry!!  You were really positive and supportive of my work!! You even gave me a present for being so interested in the poetry!! 

Wow. I don't recall that, I responded.

You know, she said, I began to love writing.  I continued doing it and went on to major in journalism in college.

It was then that I put my current midlife crisis on hold for a moment and beamed just a bit myself.

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A special shout out for my buds who gave me stellar recommendations.

More beaming guaranteed at Humor-Blogs.