Today is the big day.
I`m gonna tell my boss that I’m writing about sex.
A 35 year old teacher, telling her principal that she`s writing about sex. It`s bizarre. No doubt about it. I can`t remember having done anything like this before.
But I`m well prepared, though.
I`m prepared for being laughed at. To be looked down on.
I`m prepared for raised eyebrows and for him to make all kinds of faces.
I`m prepared for getting fired,- part one.
I mean. I don`t think they can fire me for keeping a blog while I`m home. But they can always make something up. For instance, they might say that I`m dressing inappropriately, – even while hardly having shown a breast (unlike the elderly women at the office, where the boobs have gone so grandma- soft that they bounce out of both cotton and bra). You can hardly see mine.
Or they might say that they are cutting back on staff.
«And you, dearest. You were last in».
Were you, really??! Were you??!
It could easily turn into a living hell. Lawsuits and everything. Real torture,- and a lot of paperwork.
Besides. I kind of have faith in the new one. The new principal, I mean. I believed in the last one also, but she snuck off. Right before my very eyes, she snuck off. Just when I had the whole thing singled out. When I knew exactly how to present this dear “project” to her. Step by step, -almost without her noticing. Just then. Just then, she took an early pension.
A real pity, of course. Especially considering how I had planned it down to every little detail. The whole thing would happen while eating lunch. That whole fall, we would eat lunch.
“So…I’ve started to do some writing, though. Yeah, absolutely. Real exciting…yeah. For sure. And how was your weekend?”
It was supposed to be the prelude. The first week. The following week would present a bit more.
“Well, I mean, it`s definitely a bit about sex. Sex and Roma people. Stuff like that. And about sickness, obviously. Yeah. A lot about sickness, actually. Oh, look at the time, I really should get going! Inspection time. Lets see if they have their mittens on!”.
And then, I would laugh. As would she. Hopefully. So she could forget all about it, and only focus on mittens. The idea was to dip a toe in. See how it felt.
But now, on the other hand. My whole life depends on this guy, who I really don`t know at all. He knows a lot more about me. He knows that I’m sick, for one. That’s not necessarily a good thing.
Back home, at the dinner- table;
“So…you know this sick girl, at my job? She`s just started a blog…”. Followed by an “ouch” from his wife, and a “yup” from him. Then, these extraordinary facial expressions, for the children not to understand, before the words are hanging in the air, – while everybody is being quiet, focusing on their thoughts.
“How old did you say she was…?” she would ask after a while. “35, was it?”. And he`d nod confirmingly, before the meal would continue in silence.
They practically lived in the same neighborhood. What if I met her in the streets? At the store? I could easily picture it. She would keep her children close by, and hold on to her purse. There she is, she would think to herself. There she is, the sick, degenerate sex- maniac. The blogger girl. Like a little girl, who can’t stand growing up. Imagine taking care of children and have all these opinions about sex, she would probably think. When she was spending time with friends, they`d speculate upon the fact that I didn’t have a man for myself, – which was weird considering how crazy about boys I seemed to be.
I’m prepared for gossip. I’m prepared for losing my job, part one. However, the conversation itself, I have a hard time preparing for. And it didn’t feel quite right asking my friends to rehearse. Should I`ve sent a letter? No. Probably not. Given that I’m a 35-year-old blogger… I guess I should try to come across as a grown- up. Should I punch him in the back, on our way to the office? My arm around his neck. Rub his head with fist and knuckles. “Tell me, principal. Do you like sex??”. Then burst into laughter. Jump up and down. Act like a crazy person. Living up to someone’s expectations, consequentially, could get a lot easier then. It`s tempting, I must say. Instead, what I’m gonna do, is knock on the door, to the corner office. Appropriately dressed. And tell him that I’m writing about sex. My sex, no less. The middle school teacher. A role model for the upcoming generation.
Wish me luck.