Perseverence + Vanity = Bad Karma

I am beyond white. Not like cracker white; Casper the Friendly Ghost white. After about two or three sessions of tanning beds, I gave them up the because I'm cheap and skin cancer isn't a good look. I'd like to look as far from a raisin as possible when I'm 60.

I thought about waiting for white to come back. Back in the 1800s it was posh to be fair-skinned! It was a sign of money and power to be pale! Only problem was the reason pale was associated with the previously mentioned money and power was because rich people owned slaves to work the fields. Their fair complexion represented their ability to force slaves into the fields instead of working the land themselves. Ummmm...ok. Forget 'money and power' white.

I wasn't about to renounce my efforts to look like I just got back from Spring Break in Cancun so I started to think outside the box. I heard about spray tanning so I asked at my hair salon and the owner said I would love it so much I would be addicted. I totally look like the kind of lesbian that gets addicted to expressions of vanity.

There were no preparation instructions from the salon so I went as is. As I continued my conversation at check in with the receptionists I learned there was a whole list of things I should have done: exfoliated, worn a bathing suit and left off my lotion and make-up. I should have known this was already a rough start. The receptionists assured me that they "never do any of the stuff on that list". Except for the fact that they probably don't pay near what I'm paying.

So I get into the spray tan room and it's a tiny room with a three-sided giant tent. Yeah, tent, like camping tent, tent. The spray tan girl introduces herself and is very sweet and professional. She goes through all of the preparation instructions and teaches me how to use this glue stick-looking thing. She instructs me to put it on my hands and feet as well as my nailbeds so they don't get too dark. I tell her that I didn't prepare in an undergarment sort of way, but she tells me they have a set of disposable bra and underwear. Perfect! Thank goodness! I didn't want to go home with bronzed underpants.

So she leaves the room and I start to prepare. I take out the disposable "underwear" that you can barely call underwear. It's like a see-through loin cloth about 2.5 inches wide with strings on the sides! It's way less than what Tarzan wears! WTF?!

I have to move quick because she's going to be back in a minute. I start to rub this glue stick on my hands and feet. She comes back in and gets started.

First of all, the spray tan solution is FREEZING! I'm chattering because I'm so cold. Then she moves me like Gumby; elbows out, hands down; elbows down, palms upside-down; my favorite is one leg forward, one leg back. My positioning was kind of like Venus de Milo's legs underneath the drapery. Except I have arms.

As I'm moving around in different positions my loin cloth is quickly crawling up my butt. The girl spraying me clearly didn't care because she spray-tanned the wedgie. I now have a semi-permanent wedgie tanned into my behind.

She finishes and I look like Soul Man from the 80's. If you don't know what Soul Man is, Google it. It's a lot funnier if you see it as opposed to me explaining it. I seriously looked like that. The salon assures me it will be lighter once I wash off the solution because it's setting for the next 6-8 hours.

After I wash it out, it lightens up a little bit, but my hands look ridiculously dark. I start to exfoliate and can't exfoliate enough. I'm scrubbing and scrubbing and it's just not doing anything. At one point I almost snack on my thumbs due to their resemblance to carrots.

By the time the wedding comes, it looks okay and at least the lighting does me some justice, thank goodness. I don't want to be the girl with the bad tan. As for spray tanning again, I'd rather be called translucent, Casper, or anything that exceeds whiter-than-white expectations than turn over my palms and be mistaken for an Oompa Loompa.

Graduate School

Grad school. I finally decided to take the plunge. At first, the idea intimidated me. The thought of intellectuals sitting around discussing theories of the comorbidity of anxiety disorders in students with emotional impairments made me a little self-conscious. But I was ready. I was ready for group projects, research papers, class discussions; a really amazing brain workout.

It would be way better than undergrad! These people would be professionals! People already in the field, learning from their own experiences and coming to class with ideas of how to turn theory into practice! People with whom I could exchange lesson plans and behavior interventions! These people passed the GRE for crying out loud! Feel like I'm setting you up for a let-down? It's because I am.

There are three main disappointments for me so far in graduate school: the caliber of professionals enrolled in classes with me, the low standard of our assessments and the fact that in more than two classes I have been required to bring snacks. Yes, I said snacks.

The Caliber of Professionals

Let me step back for a minute. I met a lot of yahoos in undergrad: the kid who always took his tests drunk in our 8am class, the girl who wore the same clothes in the morning that she wore to the previous night's party (make-up included) and the guy enrolled in a freshman class after attending school for 7 years.

All of that is kid stuff. Grad school takes the word "yahoo" to a new level. Grad school students are adults who are in charge of making decisions and coordinating programs for our youth! At least the drunk kid wasn't in charge of anything besides coordination of the arrival of a keg!

I have several yahoos who continue to resurface in class after class. Of course the people I respect don't return the next semester...just the yahoos. Guy-Who-Comes-Late-or-Not-At-All-and-When-He-Does-Says-Stupid-Shit is my most recent arch nemesis. He spouts out a bunch of mumbo jumbo and figures if he talks enough (and talks over you) it's a relevant point. Arrrgh. I want to walk across the room, smack him around a little and say, "Shut. Up."

The Low Standard of Assessments

Just to throw out a disclaimer, some of my classes have been appropriately challenging and I have learned a significant amount of material applicable to my profession. However, just as many have been less-than-par in terms of the quality of what we are required to produce.

Make-N-Take Project:
For my class entitled Integrating Math and Motor we were basically required to locate or create a kiddie craft project relating to a mathematical concept. What?! Not only were we required to do a short demonstration, but were expected to bring materials to have craft time in class. I'm paying thousands of dollars to have E-Z Kiddie Craft Night?! Damnit.

Bring Language Arts to Life Project
Sounds like a great idea, doesn't it? A way to get the students involved and enthusiastic! Their faces will light up when they see the academic challenge in front of them and how learning a new concept can be so exciting! What every professor forgets about me is that my students throw things and scream, "Fuck off, bitch, I will kill you." Hmm.

I decided to place all of my visions of my students walking around the room with scissors in their hand attempting to stab me out of my mind so I could just be a "normal" teacher planning a "normal" lesson. I had this great idea to have two people in class volunteer as a colon and semicolon, wearing giant punctuation t-shirts. They would insert themselves into sentences depending on which punctuation is required. It's cute! It's catchy! It's gimmicky!

As I started planning the execution of this brilliant idea, I realized I would have to use puffy paint to create the t-shirts. Puffy paint?! Really?! I've been reduced to puffy paint?! How professional and intellectual. Who knew my old sorority picture frame decoration skills would resurface for grad school? Sigh.

Requirement to Bring Snacks

Ugh. The worst one. When my first class came up that required me to bring snacks I pictured my mom baking sugar cookies for my softball team (white frosting with red laces of course) with each girls' name and jersey number on it. Was I supposed to frost cookies with stupid people in graduation caps on each?

I told my Middle School Special Education students about my snack requirement and even my kid with a 60-some IQ makes fun of my "Snacky Class". He even makes baby noises when he talks about it to illustrate the immaturity of the requirement.

When I tell people I'm in grad school, they look impressed. They ask me what I'm studying and what classes I'm taking. Integrating Language Arts and Linguistics and Classroom Management and Social Skill Development for Students with Disabilities sounds impressive. I want to tell them not to look so astonished and that I'll puffy paint them a t-shirt with my newly refreshed graduate level skills.