Another treadmill

Some church friends who no longer run indoors have given us their old, ornery treadmill. The motor has a mind of its own. It goes faster than I instruct it to do. Yesterday, I had to keep reducing the speed until the display said I was running ten-minute miles; but surely I was going much faster, and when I dismounted, I was so tired I almost collapsed. I have no such trouble when I exercise out of doors.

Still, I’m glad to have this contraption. What with Halloween, Thanksgiving, our COVID quarantine, and the cold, November was the first month since July of 2020 in which I gained rather than lost weight.

Some days, I’m within 15 lbs. of my final target. At least, I think I’m within 15 lbs.; like the treadmill’s display, our scales are inaccurate, probably because the floorboards in this house are not evenly laid out. Each day I must take different readings until I get the same reading several times. Never before, in my personal experience, has the mode of any series of measurements been a more useful average than the median or the mean. Live long enough, and everything happens to you at least once.

Never been overweight? Just wait. Never been overweight and then lost that weight? Just wait.

In the seventh or eighth grade, I wrote a story about a thin man who drinks some delicious chicken noodle soup, decides that his life has been lacking, turns into a glutton, and becomes hugely and famously fat. At the apex of his fame (and size), he stops liking chicken noodle soup. He ends up thinner than before. I was reading a lot of Ray Bradbury when I wrote this story.

Spotify has compiled the statistics of my usage in 2021. I listen to Spotify more hours than 97% of all subscribers. Money well spent. I listen to Vangelis more than all but 0.05% of Vangelis’s listeners. Vangelis is whom I often choose for Samuel’s napping-time.

Chile 0, Ecuador 2

Big, big victory for Ecuador in Santiago, in the stadium of Club Deportivo Universidad Católica. We dominated in the early minutes and were rewarded with a well-taken goal by Pervis Estupiñán. Then Chile’s Arturo Vidal committed the red-card foul of his life. To the Chileans’ credit, they rallied hard and played with courage. But Ecuador created the better scoring chances – many of them squandered by Michael Estrada. It wasn’t until stoppage time that Moisés Caicedo struck the coup de grâce.

The Brazilians have qualified for the World Cup. The Argentinians have qualified. We are third, with a six-point cushion over the fourth- and fifth-placed teams, and seven points above the best teams in the disqualification zone. There’s a decent chance we’d scrape through even with four concluding defeats.

Tonight I was running my many laps, in the cold and wind and snow, and it was bleak, and I thought of quitting; but I remembered the pibes – the lads – and was inspired to push on ahead.

November’s poem

I haven’t been contagious since Wednesday or Thursday, but Samuel needs me to stay indoors with him (he’s not allowed to go out until Monday). Today, with Karin at home, I left the house for the first time since I learned I had COVID. I ran the usual number of miles, with dismaying slowness. My plan for this afternoon is to visit the library.

I am dealing with my “cabin fever” just in time to endure another bout of it. Yesterday, we had our first snow of the year. More is expected.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

W.H. Auden, “Musée des Beaux Arts” (1938):

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

About suffering they were never wrong,

The Old Masters: how well they understood

Its human position; how it takes place

While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;

How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting

For the miraculous birth, there always must be

Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating

On a pond at the edge of the wood:

They never forgot

That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course

Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot

Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse

Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away

Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may

Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,

But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone

As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green

Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen

Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,

Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

I wonder if Breugel (he had dropped the “h” from his name) painted the landscape first, and then thought, This sea looks kinda Greek; I’d better put something Greek in it. How about Icarus.

Probably not.

Venezuela 2, Ecuador 1

This is the second qualifier we’ve lost to a team at the bottom of the standings.

This defeat is especially galling. We were ahead 1–0 and seemed to have the Venezuelans under control. I guess we were excessively confiados.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Karin & I continue to unpack. Today I cleared out about half of the kitchen and nearly all of the front parlor. It was like a super long game of peg solitaire – I’d clear away one “peg” to make room to clear away another, so I could access yet another “peg” – only, these “pegs” were liquorbox- or bananabox-sized and filled with dishes or books, and the empty spaces were on three different storeys of the house.

I was glad for the workout since I didn’t run. Yesterday, though, I did try out a new route: eight laps around a nearby school. The sidewalk was uneven and hard, and on the last lap I injured a groin muscle. But I toughed it out: I needed to burn extra calories: I was to go to a restaurant with Karin’s dad’s family.

Here is our group portrait, with little Samuel at the end of the table:

After the meal, Karin & I stopped at my parents’ house and retrieved the food we’d left in the freezer. But when we got back to our new house, the power had gone out.

I had to sleep without using my CPAP machine, and so I woke up many times.

Last days in Mishawaka

Happy birthday to Karin, who is thirty.

As she pointed out, our ages start with the same digit. For now.

The grownups’ books – not Samuel’s – have all been transported to the new house, except the 35–40 vols. that I’ve set aside for imminent use. I miss the books that are out of reach. Until lately, I’d never had such an urge to read “The Canterville Ghost.”

The furniture, including the beds, will be moved on Saturday. This will be our last week at my parents’ house.

Like a good addict, I worry about where in the new neighborhood I’ll exercise. I’ll miss Mishawaka’s riverwalk. Its pavement once seemed too hard, but my legs have gotten used to it, and I have no trouble covering an extra mile on little more than a whim. Some mornings, I go incredibly fast, faster than I would have dreamed, because I have to get back to the house before Karin can leave for her job.

Ecuador 2, Paraguay 0

Hardly a comfortable victory: the goals arrived in minute 88 and in stoppage time. Paraguay defended well but posed little offensive threat. We were devoid of ideas and sharpness until the last quarter of the game; the substitutions helped.

So, due to a couple of goals in less than ten minutes, our streak of winless games – seven, counting the two previous World Cup qualifiers and five games at the Copa América – was ended. Perhaps this will make us bolder.

Yesterday’s other results allowed us to increase our lead over the teams beneath us in the standings.

Our next game, on Sunday against Chile, also will be at home; then we’ll travel to Uruguay for this month’s curtain-closer.

I finished reading Tana French’s In the Woods, which had lain forlornly on my shelf for several years. I didn’t expect it to be such a downer.

Now can we watch The Dublin Murders?, asks Karin.

Well, no. The Dublin Murders relates the stories of In the Woods and The Likeness simultaneously. So, first, I have to read The Likeness.

The weather in Indiana is turning autumnal, which is good for jogging.

Sacrilege; renovations; our new neighborhood; the “frankly” book

When I did my little jog this morning, I was not alone. A church was holding a fundraiser. I saw signs for a five-kilometer run and for a one-mile walk. There seemed to be four people running and twenty people walking, the walkers all in one clump.

Messages of inspiration were posted around the course. The most obnoxious message, at a watering station, said “‘I thirst’ (John 19:28)” – as if a 5K fun run were comparable to the crucifixion. This is the sort of sacrilege I expect to see on unbelieving (but biblically literate) British TV, not in the pious middle of the United States.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Karin left her job early so we could do some renovations in the house we bought. Mainly, we pulled up filthy old carpet downstairs. The underlying hardwood is in good condition. We discovered that one of the (less filthily) carpeted upstairs rooms has bare, unvarnished planks underneath, so we left that carpet in place.

We both got some nasty scratches from the carpets’ staples. Samuel wandered around and got into trouble, as usual, but after a time we were able to distract him with Internet videos (a technician came who set up our Internet connection).

I took a brief walk. Several of my new neighbors were out of doors; quite a few of them were speaking in Spanish. My mission was to return “Frankly, We Did Win this Election”: The Inside Story of How Trump Lost to the local branch of the public library. What I read of that book was entertaining. The back cover has a nice blurb by President Trump, praising the author for his wavy hair. Alas, I didn’t have time to finish “Frankly,” and a hold had been placed on it, so I couldn’t just borrow it again. This is what comes of reading too many different books when I’ve checked out a book in high demand.

House hunting, chapter the last

Since Monday night, I’ve been limping due to a painful blister upon one of my toes. (The cleats are to blame.) I haven’t been able to run or even mow the lawn.

How is such a small injury so debilitating? This feels less like a flesh wound, more like a broken toe.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

It’s just as well that I’ve been confined to the house. Lightning has been striking nearby, and violent winds have been blowing; yesterday they blew the screen off Samuel’s window and carried it as far as the neighbor’s fence. Karin brought the screen inside and propped it against a kitchen wall next to the onions, potatoes, and Gerber meals.

I limped around the yard and picked up fallen branches as a prelude to the mowing that I was unable to do.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Soon, I’ll have to mow the lawns of two houses: the one we live in now, into which my parents plan to move; and the one across town that Karin & I just bought.

Yes, we now own that house; although, due a technicality, we haven’t finished buying it, because it’s still possible for us to add to the down payment – which, indeed, we plan to do.

For now, I’m glad to have a place in which to live, and that it was providentially priced. Of the houses we bid on, this was the cheapest by $30,000; we obtained it for what most houses like this one would’ve cost before prices skyrocketed.

Also, among the houses we tried to buy, this one had the most bedrooms.

What is more, this is the only house where we were greeted by a neighbor. He offered to mow our lawn, for a fee. We might employ him until we move in.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

While we waited for the sellers to finish signing their documents, our realtor showed us this grim YouTube video of what the housing market has been like these last months. I guess he felt comfortable sharing it because we came away with a decent deal instead of an overpriced heap of rubble. This wasn’t due to any virtue on our part, however. All we did was lose the expensive bids and win the cheap one. Providentially.

A renewed athleticism

Thunderstorms and flash flood warnings tonight: no pickup soccer, despite the fervid wishes of the twenty or so nerds who like to run around on an unpainted, undersized field with lots of gnats. My muscles are getting more used to the sport. Alas, I’ve had a three-game goal drought. That’s what comes of playing fullback while lacking the will to cover more than twenty yards.

Hmm. Facebook says people are playing right now. Well, good for them. I am at home in bed.

I have been running again; that, too, is increasingly easy, though the concrete surface of Mishawaka’s running trail is painfully hard. The trail goes along a scenic riverfront. Unfortunately there are many geese, and the crows have been attacking me.

Tomorrow the building inspectors will look at the house we intend to buy, and so we’ll find out if it’s habitable.

The gynecologist’s; Milkman; Silver Blaze

I went with Karin to her gynecological exam. A lot of men were there with their WAGs. They looked as if they absolutely did not want to be there. I’m sure I looked the same. On the whole, though, the experience wasn’t too bad (from a spectator’s perspective). The doctor was very nice. “Girl power” music – Katy Perry, etc. – was piped into every room.

Also feminine is the newest Man Booker Prize-winning novel, Milkman by Anna Burns. It offers a taxonomy of men. Being categorized unnerves me as a masculine reader. The book is set in a nationally and religiously divided city in Northern Ireland, where the constant fighting allows men to behave in manly ways and turns the women into collateral damage. But I’m sure the narrator, “middle sister,” will overcome her powerlessness and invisibilty (or, rather, her undesired visibility). She’s a voracious reader, for one thing, which means she’s smarter than the other characters, especially the men (or is she?). And she’s quite a runner, which means she’s physically tough.

Inspired by “middle sister,” I rode Silver Blaze, the bike, yesterday, which was not so painful as when I’d try to run after months of inactivity. I endured moments after the bike ride when I was unable to stand, but I suffered no blistering, no aching of joints. Alas, I didn’t burn nearly as many calories as when I used to run, but one must begin somewhere.

Our new home

On moving day, thankfully, there was very little rain. The next day, it rained much harder.

While our helpers were carrying furniture and boxes into our new apartment, Jasper and Ziva were hiding under the bed. (Or, rather, Jasper was keeping his head under the bed, like an ostrich.) Only after the helpers left did the kitties venture to the living room. Since then, they’ve been sniffing around the apartment. They seem to like it well enough.

Still, they’ve been clinging to us more than usual. When Karin went to work this morning, Jasper cried most piteously; and he did it again when I was about to leave.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The unpacking will be completed by the end of the week – I hope.

Unused to such hard labor, Karin & I sleep soundly. At bedtime, we can hardly move.

Karin (lying in bed last night): “That was such a weird movie, Sweetie.”

John-Paul (almost too pained to speak): “Which movie?”

Karin: “Pineapple Express for Kids.”

John-Paul: “Pineapple Express for Kids?”

(Pause.)

Karin: “Yeah. You know. Superbad.”

We watched Superbad quite a while ago. Why would Karin be reminded of it – or of The Pineapple Express, for that matter? Maybe because of our neighbor, who’s often smoking in his parked car.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

This is one of the better apartments I’ve lived in. The main window lets in a good deal of light. There’s plenty of counter space in the kitchen. The rooms are fairly large. The crime rate is fairly low.

As I’ve mentioned, the river is across the street. Next to it is a good trail for running. Karin says she’ll go with me if I run lazily enough.

Wayde van Niekerk

I said I wouldn’t follow the Olympics, but this news did catch my eye: Wayde van Niekerk smashing the 400m world record, running in Lane 8.

This video will likely be taken down.

I lose a race

You play like an old man, Brandon tells me as I limp off the field (not that he’s very limber). I am an old man, I answer. But the truth is, I’ve let myself go; I could refurbish my motor if I wanted to.

This morning, by the river, I run five miles (I can do that any day, irrespective of my rustiness). Half a mile ahead jogs a slim young woman. Slim but slow. Ten minutes later, I’ve passed her. Another slim young woman appears in the distance; five more minutes, and I’ve passed her, too. On a bridge I pass another woman. This one is walking her dog. The bridge is narrow, but the dog is leashed, and the woman pulls it close to her. Comfortably ahead, I slow my pace. This is the life.

Just as I relax, though, I’m passed by a crafty old man: one of these “health fiends.” This won’t do. (A year ago I was on the trail constantly, and no one ever passed me.)

I speed up: for a while I keep pace behind this presumptuous old man. But eventually he pulls well ahead. His legs are toned, but not more than mine. Last year, I would have lapped him.

At home, worn out, I sleep for several hours.

The gym rats

Mary cancels her old gym membership, and the entire household (minus Bianca) signs up at Planet Fitness.

“There should be a sitcom episode about this.”

“Yes: ‘The Gang Joins the Gym.’”

“There already is one. It’s called ‘Sweet Dee Has a Heart Attack.’”

We tour the building. Very nice. There’s purple everywhere, and a lot of fat people.

There aren’t a lot of weights; this is to keep out the bodybuilders and the fitness nazis. A “lunk” alarm goes off whenever you grunt too much or you brag about your workout or about shedding your toxins. If you set off the “lunk” alarm very often, you lose your membership. The gym is trying to be a safe place for “regular people.”

Slogans:

NO GYMTIMIDATION

NO LUNKS

JUDGEMENT FREE ZONE

At first we wonder how we’ll manage without judging people, but soon we’re putting the ideal to good use.

At Wendy’s:

“Are you really going to eat all of that?”

“Hey, I can take it over to Planet Fitness and eat it there. It’s a Judgement Free Zone.”

The other day I was on a treadmill, running next to a very slow man. I did not judge him.

It’s kind of lovely, actually, what capitalism is achieving here. No judgment + just $10/month + free pizza + lots of purple → lots of people exercising who ordinarily wouldn’t.

R.I.P. “Chucho,” pt. 2

In Chile’s Estadio Nacional, the Ecuadorians celebrate their qualification. Jeff Montero and Toño Valencia wear undershirts commemorating the “Chucho” Benítez. On Valencia’s undershirt, the “Chucho” has wings.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Yesterday, for the first time in two months, I went running. Five miles. Easy peasy.

February fragments

Last week I was sick. This week I feel better, but I’m still blowing my nose a lot. We’re out of tissues and I’ve switched to napkins (which, oddly, I prefer). I’ve gone running just twice — barely enough to keep limber. With sickness comes sadness, and sadness weakens my resolve to trudge through snow.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

At IUSB I tutored a professor. (He was from China; he needed help writing in English.) He was submitting an article for publication. The draft had been typeset with LaTeX, which made me nostalgic for graduate school.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I’m conflicted about Libre Baskerville. On the one hand, well, it’s a Baskerville (or a Baskerville clone), and it has boldface and italics, and it’s free. I printed out a sample and it looked OK. I liked the tall x-height. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure the font was designed for webpages, not for print, and I don’t wish to be caught printing out the wrong kind of font.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

With Kenny I’ve been achieving domestic bliss: we’ve just finished watching Season 2 of Downton Abbey. But this weekend he’s in Nicaragua. With whom shall I watch TV? With Sabby, that’s whom. Five hours of Pride and Prejudice.

With David, two weeks ago, I watched Two English Girls. All we knew of it was its Hulu Plus synopsis: “A romantic triangle develops between two English girls and a Frenchman.” That seemed very promising to us. The movie fulfilled that promise.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

On the bus, an old lady asked to listen to my music, and so I lent her an earbud. She listened to “Cups” from Beaucoup Fish. She said it was the bomb.

Midwinter, pt. 3

My Kenyan friend has agreed to reduce her generosity to just two meals each week.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were warm days. At first everything was foggy: steam was rising up from the leftover snow. I exercised in shorts. Later it rained. Walking home from work, I saw that the river had flooded over parts of the East Bank Trail.

Since Thursday it’s been cold, cold.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

At IUSB the custom is to avoid proclaiming one’s religion. And so my department’s secretary — a jolly, John Goodmanesque, ex-naval man; a motorcyclist with all the paraphernalia — keeps his faith low-key.

One day when I must’ve looked lousy, he said, “I’ll be sending positive vibes your way.” I thanked him. Lately he’s grown bolder. When I’ve come into the office and flipped the switch, he’s said, “Let there be light.”

Like many other Christians, he’s offered to drive me home. (He shudders at the weather.) Once, during a downpour, I accepted; but I hated to, despite his kindness.

I like to ride with those whom I particularly enjoy — for the sake of being near to them, not for the sake of free-riding, of doing what’s easy. What I’m discovering in South Bend is that the burden of friendship falls unequally because I never drive. (In Ithaca this wasn’t an issue, for I seldom rode with friends.) I never will defeat this culture. I never will convince the world to walk. The result of my stubbornness is that I’m a bad friend.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Kenny drives me when I can stand to ask him to do that. On the other hand, Kenny and I just finished watching Peep Show, and lately we’ve been watching Downton Abbey, and I pay for the Netflix subscription.

The bleak midwinter

It’s Martin Luther King Junior Day. No school.

Temperature: 12 °F.

Wind speed: approx. 20 m.p.h.

Wind chill: 5 °F.

Snowy.

I go running.

Clothing: 3 shirt layers; 3 pant layers; shoes; spikes (thanks, Cristian); stockings; a stocking cap; 2 pairs of gloves.

Attempted distance: 7 miles.

Completed distance: 5.95 miles.

I knock off early because my hands are more numb than they’ve ever been. After I return to my building, I must wait several minutes until I can grasp the key firmly enough to unlock the door.

When feeling returns, the pain in my hand is so severe, I nearly faint. I collapse onto my couch; my head swims. Hours later, my nose still stings.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Hours and hours and hours later, indoors, it’s beautifully cozy — you see, we’ve been turning on the heat. (We kept it off until last week. I was always under a blanket.) I glance up from my computer: outside, snow is swirling in all directions. Kenny emerges from his room, dressed from head to foot. He’ll try his luck running on the trail. … Some short minutes later, he returns. He brushes the snow off his cap; I feel cozier.

These days, Kenny and I watch a lot of Peep Show. Flatmates watching flatmates. Males watching other males who can’t help but compete against one another. Which of us is Jez, and which is Mark? Alas, I’m Mark (the anxious one). Or is Kenny Mark? (Kenny is definitely more of a capitalist.) But why must one of us be Mark? Or Jez for that matter? Why must we be either of those twerps? Why couldn’t we both be Super Hans? Super Hans is the cool one. Kenny and I are both cool, aren’t we? I’m definitely Super Hans, without the drugs.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The 49ers and Ravens will play each other in the Super Bowl. Coach Harbaugh vs. Coach Harbaugh: brother vs. brother. Goodness that’s rough.

Lame

Foot pain has been preventing me from running. I’ve ordered a new pair of shoes: until they arrive, I’ll sit back and rest. Which is to say, I won’t get any rest, because all the while I’ll feel antsy.

Because of the foot pain, whenever I go on errands I walk with a ridiculous limp.

On Sunday I was jaywalking with Stephen. “Let’s cross here,” he said. “All right,” I said. And when we were halfway across the road, a car loomed up and I had to limp with double speed.

Yesterday I rode the bus to Walmart and then limped over to Great Clips for a haircut. The stylist had plenty of piercings and tattoos, and her manner was aggressive. I felt obliged to pretend to be a badass.

“Cut it very short,” I said.

“You do realize,” she said, “when it grows out, it’ll stick up in the back.”

“Honestly I don’t even care,” I said.

“You don’t like to get your hair cut, do you,” she said.

“No, I don’t,” I said.

“When was the last time — eight months ago?” she said.

“Five and a half,” I said. Bam.

Admiringly she said: “Your hair grows really fast. You’re really healthy.” I said: “You mean, like, I don’t have cancer.”

She was amused by that.

When it was done she said I looked like a different person. I asked whether that was a good or a bad thing. “Well, I enjoy the shock value,” she said. “I will, too,” I said.

“See you in six months,” she said. “If I come back at all,” I said. Bam.

I have no idea how to do nice, normal smalltalk.

Kenny asked which stylist it was. He knew her. I told him about the conversation. He said I should ask her for a date. Kenny is always telling me to ask people for a date. But I don’t want to go on a date.

Kenny’s mom told me I need to drive a car: if I won’t drive a car, I won’t get a wife. You make a good point, I said. Kenny’s mom told me she’d pray for me to get a wife. I told her I’d appreciate that prayer. I’d appreciate any prayer on my behalf, including that one.

I am cocky

I thought it was windy on Tuesday when I took my exercise; I didn’t realize I was running along the edge of a hurricane. No wonder there were moments when I was blown across the sidewalk. And later, when I returned home from work, I was the only pedestrian for miles. Such moments offer a peculiar, lonely satisfaction: I’ve outlasted everyone; I’ve won.

Last week I covered fifty-six miles outside, on foot. It was no special effort. It’s becoming normal.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

With Cat, my neighbor, I saw A River Runs Through It: a movie about fathers and sons. The son shows his writing to his father; the father praises it, then highlights every error. That was kind, said Cat. That’s what I do all day long, I told her; that’s my job. Showing people how stupid they are, said Cat.

That amused me: it was accurate. Well, I said, I manage to do it with some tact.

Gradually I’ve amassed a sort of clientele: students who hope to be tutored specifically by me. I suppose that deep down, I wish to outperform the other tutors. But I try to concentrate on other things. Before I go in to work, I pray that I might show my students and colleagues the love of Christ. Then I put that out of mind, and until a student approaches, I try to focus on Agatha Christie, or upon the problems in my life. And when I’m finally asked to tutor, I’m able to give the student my full, bemused attention. The trick is to coax the student into sharing that bemusement. Usually it works.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

What’s your name? said one student. It’s not just Paul.

It’s John-Paul.

I don’t want to forget your name, she said.

I will forget yours, I told her. I see hundreds of students; I don’t remember all of them. And I don’t expect them to remember me.

They will remember you, she said.

She told me she wanted to become a social studies teacher, Lord willing. Lord willing indeed. That job is hard to obtain. She wasn’t stupid, not at all, but she was a college senior who still had serious trouble writing. My heart was aching for her.

Usually my feelings are more triumphant. In this small arena, I’m the unquestioned expert. I bask in the students’ awe and gratitude. My confidence is unchecked: it shines, and the students photosynthesize some of it for themselves. I take pleasure in explaining, in being the one who’s able to explain. I’m discovering that this job really winds my clock.