I have survived

week one, at least. This is not to say that I'm ready for week two, just that week one didn't kill me. I would apologize for not writing, but that's so diary circa tenth grade that I can't do it. Instead I'll itemize the week (which is, admittedly, diary circa senior year, high school).

1. The sweating continued, but I've concluded that it's the room and building, not me. At least, I hope it's not me, because then I'd have to be grossed out by my own body, which usually only happens. . . never mind. But the room is in the middle of the basement of a building with crummy ventilation, so I'm going to go with that.
2. Teaching improved considerably. I have full class rolls and I actually enjoyed creative writing after the horror of Wednesday.
3. I have at least 150 pages of theory to read by Monday--that's not counting what I read through today. And a short essay to write. The good news is, "work theory" predicts that I'll never actually acheive a PhD and if I do, no one will hire me.
4. I wish I was kidding about the work theory.
5. Lunch with cousin and her husband today. They talked houses and babies. I didn't talk. Good times.
6. Hitchcock tonight. I will die happy, although without having read everything for Monday.

I suppose that somewhere on the list should include last night's soiree with high school friends. . . I wasn't told that the seven-year-crush was there or I probably would have made an excuse to not go. How many times do you have to get over someone? And is it possible? Because I know he's not the hottest guy out there. . . but when he's around, he's still the one I want. And until I really am over him, I don't know if I can open myself up to anyone else.