Day 9 – the novel (a long one)

(note to readers…I was behind on this whole writing thing and so got into work about 45 minutes early and went to town.  I gave up most of my lunch and continued to work.  I’m now only 500 or so words away from 15,000 which is the goal for the day.  I think that will be easily made up in the next few weeks.  Woo hoo!)

What to cook?  It was my turn to cook dinner for my roommate, or flatmate as they call them here in England.  I had always loved cooking.  As a child, I followed my mom around the grocery store, checking out the ingredients, finding things like all-spice and oregano to be totally exotic.  This is what you get from growing up in small town Pennsylvania.  As I got older and my dad began to cook more and more unique things, I got the bug to experiment.  When high school arrived, my parents decided that I needed to learn to cook and the best way to do so was to have me cook something every week.  I was assigned Sunday nights as I didn’t have sports and so could spend some time researching, shopping and cooking my meal.  Being a typical teenager, in many aspects, I ended up specializing in scrambled eggs (but with a mix of unique spices) and other breakfast foods.  But I did try new things and figured out my future ‘date meal’ during my senior year: garlic and parmesan crusted chicken.  It was a winner.  Tonight I wanted to do something special for my flatmate, Amy, as she had been so helpful in the last month.  I felt that I could survive the hell freezing over atmosphere that I experienced at work on a regular basis.  I decided to do an internet search before leaving work, and went to my favourite place, Epicurious.com.  I wasn’t sure what I wanted and so just went down to the recipe of the day and found a lamb dish with apricots and spicy lentils.  It sounded delish!  And so shopping I went on the way home.

 

I loved heading to Sainsbury’s as it felt so much like a US grocery shop.  There were so many choices, and so many more than I had been used to in the States.  I loved the international ingredients which I never saw unless I went to a speciality shop while living in Boston or DC.  Luckily, this recipe was going to be easy to shop for and to make, so it took very little time for me to walk through the aisles and get to the queue at the front.  Queuing is a great art form that seems to be losing itself in Britain.  Little old ladies definitely still take part, but I think that many of the newer immigrants (Americans as well), don’t get the rules and so break them with abandon.  But at the shops, unlike by the bus stop or on the tube,  it’s pretty well defined.

 

One of the things I had to get used to in England was measurements of my food.  You’d think we’d all have something standard.  But no, the US had their own thing, while the rest of the world did yet another.  I bought a scale to measure weights, usually for baking, and bought a new set of measuring cups as there was a different.  This time, as the recipe was from a US source, I was able to use the measuring cups and spoons that I had brought over with me.  The things you learn as an expat.

 

Dinner went well as we talked about my future date and about the kids at our school.  It’s a fact of life as a teacher that talk will inevitably move toward kids if you are speaking to another teacher.  It always drove my dad crazy when my mom was socializing with her work crew.  But you get used to it and eventually get to know the kids through the stories.  Amy told me all sorts of fun things about the kids in her math class, from who was surprisingly the top of the class to the common mistakes that freshmen made in Algebra.  I know, we’re a thrilling pair to hang with!  After we finished with our meal, we retired to the couch with a glass of wine to watch our normal Tuesday night run of shows on TV.  Addicts, we were.

 

The next morning, after a short workout and a shower at the gym (that guilt hit again, you know), work preceded as normal, even though I could barely contain myself.  More more day.  Only one!  I was in the midst of typing up my plan for our next Health class when a girl came to my door crying, supported by one of my Mentors.  Lisa was a new girl at the school, and had come over, unwillingly, from Houston, Texas.  She had left behind all the friends and family she had spent an entire life getting to know.  This was her first experience of moving.  And she was not happy.

 

“I don’t have any friends.  I miss my friends at home.  I hate all my teachers.  My teachers all hate me.  My parents never listen to me and I just want to go home.  This isn’t working at all.  And I hate it here.”

 

These were not unusual statements to hear from a new student adjusting to a new school.  And when you are working at an international school, with kids who are far away from what they consider home, then you hear these words much more so and much louder than in the US.  Most kids who move overseas have these feelings at one point or another.  That they don’t fit.  That they’ll never make friends.  That they will lose the friends that they have left behind.  That they just won’t ever be happy again.  I knew that this would not be the last young one who would say these statements to me this year, and as kids came into the school at different times of the year, it would be never ending.  I found in talking to the previous counsellor and to all the people who worked with these students that this was typically just a phase, and over time, almost every kid found his or her place at the school.  It was quite rare that a child would not find a friend or at least some sort of connection before their first year was out.  But most kids didn’t want to give it that time, and parents tended to freak out after about a few months.  It would be up to me to let them know about the norms and help them realize that they weren’t alone in this process.  That many others had felt this way in the past, and there were things to do which would make life much better.

 

Lisa and I talked about these things along with her Mentor, who had arrived at the school as a new freshman as well.  We tried to brainstorm ways to reconnect to her old friends, while not pushing away the possibility of someone new.  It was a bit harder since Lisa didn’t want to come to like this place, since she had not be part of the decision to come here.  But we also talked a lot about how horrible it would be to stay somewhere for a year or two and feel miserable the entire time.  But what if being happy meant she’d never go back?  That was the crux of the problem.  The fight between being happy and not going home.  If she kept up the front then her family might be forced to return, sooner rather than later.  I knew that today was not going to be our last conversation and I got her promise that we would talk again, with her Mentor, later in the week.  This was the kind of challenge that got me into counselling.  I didn’t always turn a kid around, but at the least, I laid the groundwork for growth even if it happened much later.  Planting a seed is what we therapists call it.

 

I decided, for some unknown reason, to do a second short workout and shower after work.  I guess it would mean that I could get away with not doing so the next morning, but really I think it was more to calm my mind.  Between thinking about homesickness and thinking about my date, my psyche was a bit overwhelmed.  I had been so excited about moving to England that I didn’t really take the time to get too worried or homesick.  I had felt a bit sad after about two weeks, more due to the work issue, but nothing had hit me too much as of yet.  But as I thought about what was going on with Lisa, with my job and thought about how far away my friends and family were, I was struck down with a bit of the blues.  I stood in the gym shower and just cried.  It was lucky that the showers were private and that no one seemed to hear me.  What was I doing in England?  I knew I loved so much about it.  I enjoyed walking around central London and seeing the buildings which were older than the country I came from.  I had so much fun with my hockey crew and getting to play yet again.  And I was making friends.  What was my problem?  I just felt the distance grow in my mind and knew that I needed to make the time to call one of my parents and an old friend or two.  I just missed things being easy and having someone to call to grab a coffee at a random moment.

 

My homesickness wasn’t helped as I went to do a load or two of laundry.  This was a serious challenge for me after the ease of doing it back in the States.  There I had owned a huge washer and dryer which could handle what felt like acres of clothing.  Here, in my rented flat, we had a small washer and no dryer.  I could wash about three towels and a tee-shirt at the same time, or so it felt.  And then I had to wait at least a day or two for the items to dry on a plastic rack. Oh, how I missed my dryer.  I knew that what I was doing in England was so much better for the environment and, in the long run, my clothes, but it still was one more thing that added to the difficulty of living in London.

 

Living overseas was a dream that came over time.  Family had done so, and I figured it might be kinda fun to have that sort of adventure.  I had spent some time in London, France and India before this, so I knew it was something I could do.  And one would think that living in an English speaking nation would make it much easier.  Well, I’m not so sure.  See you tend to expect things to be pretty much the same as where you came from, cause we’re speaking the same language.  And then you realise that it truly is not.  The same language that is.  You begin to understand what they mean when you hear them talking about aubergine and courgette on the cooking shows.  You figure out that a car park is not a place for fun.  And then there are the small little differences in the way things are done.  Getting a bank account?  Well that’s not a joy.  I remember opening my first as an adult in Pennsylvania and it took next to nothing to do so.  But here I felt like I had to go through so many steps and prove that I was WORTHY of opening up a small little checking account, which they called a current account.  It’s the little differences, the unexpected ones, which can make it so hard.

 

Luckily, I have a relatively buoyant nature.  It’s something good to have as a counsellor; the ability to just bounce back and be positive.  As a young person I had made up my mind to only allow myself to wallow in a bad mood for about 24 hours max, two hours if it was about something inconsequential.  Homesickness, while never a good thing, didn’t rank so high on my ‘feeling bad’ scale at that moment, so I knew I could get past it relatively quickly.  I had a plan in place, to talk to someone that weekend, which made me feel much, much better.  Plus it was Amy’s turn to cook and she was amazing!  A hot meal in my tummy was the cure for all evils.

 

Another good meal under my ever expanding belt (thank goodness for that double workout) and a dose of American sitcoms, and both Amy and I were feeling quite good.  The next glass of wine didn’t hurt our mood in any way, and gave me the courage to call Callum to see how things were going.  I didn’t normally make a move in the early stages of dating, but I just felt like he wouldn’t mind so much.  We talked a bit about our hockey practices and the people on our team.  He let it out that he had gotten quite a bit of ribbing the night before from a few of the guys who had seen us kissing at the Underground Bar on Saturday night.  But all it did was make him look forward to our date the next night.  YAY!  He was excited too!

 

***

 

The day had arrived.  THE day.  And I truthfully felt like I was sixteen years old again, going on my first date ever (I was a late bloomer, which you would have been too if your parent was a teacher at your school).  I was giddy with excitement.  And due to the fact that school got out early every Wednesday, I was going to do a bit of shopping.  I didn’t NEED to buy anything to wear that evening, and I had an outfit planned for the night since first being asked, but I WANTED to buy something spectacular.  I knew that this probably would mean I’d find nothing to buy, which is a cardinal law of shopping, but I was willing to chance it as I had an extra hour or two to spend trying.

 

Being new to London meant that I had major expenses up front to be paid.  And the exchange rate hadn’t been kind to me.  So I wasn’t exactly flush with extra cash.  I didn’t have a credit card because I didn’t have any credit in England and they didn’t care what it had been in the US.  So I was going to have to be a bit frugal and creative in my outfit purchasing. I knew I wanted to go with something a bit nicer than jeans and a top, but nothing too formal or sexy as well.  Just a touch sexy.  Perhaps black trousers (you never called them pants here) and a tank top of some sort would be the way to go.  I had black jeans at home with a funky black top.  It was very New York black, but I wasn’t sure if that was the way I wanted to go.

 

My style was a bit funky prep, so I thought that I could kinda head that way, if the London stores had anything in that kinda of style.  I started out at Debenhams, which had quite a few affordable lines.  I found a few black trousers to try on (no, you can’t call them pants…that’s what underwear is called) but didn’t really find the top which struck a chord.  I had them hold onto one of the pairs, which fit me like a glove, and went on to the mecca of shopping, Selfridges.  Most of the departments are quite unaffordable for a teacher like me, but a few of them are accessible.  I started my search in the ‘basement’ which has a lot of the brands favoured by teens and young 20-somethings.  As I can pass for either at times, I figured, why not?  Again, I struck out.  I then wandered further up, toward brands like Hobbs and Fern Wright Manson.  It was there that I found the item I was hoping for.  I tried on and love a gorgeous red rouched top that would look so perfect with the black trousers.

I finished up my afternoon shop with the purchase of a new lipstick, which went perfectly with my lovely outfit.  In the end, I’d be wearing black trousers, a red top and a pair of black high heeled boots underneath.  I’d add on my black leather jacket to keep me warm.  I was going to look good!

 

As I didn’t have a shower at home that was working (darn those slow moving water people), I stopped by the gym and took a shower.  Workout be damned.  I had a date!  I slathered on a ton of product to keep my face all nice and moisturized and my hair wonderfully shiny with its lovely curl.  I had to admit that as a female, I kinda had it easy.  All I needed to do was wash, use some gooey stuff, slightly dry with a diffuser and I ended up with a gorgeous head of curls.  Some people paid good money for that.  People who are blessed with curly hair do know though that it takes years to get to that point.  It explained my shaved head, mushroom cut and various other bad cuts that happened until I finally figured out how to ‘do’ my look.

 

I made it home without the wind playing too much havoc on my locks, and went to iron my outfit so I would look perfect.  I laid out my makeup with care, figured out what jewellery would look right and then went and had a glass of white wine to relax a bit.  I still had a few hours until I had to leave.  Amy kept giving me pep talks as I slightly hyperventilated on the couch.  I knew it would be fine and we’d have fun, but I just couldn’t imagine what we were going to talk about.  We had made it past the normal first date phase in the evening we spent in the Underground Bar, talking about where were from and all of that.  I guess perhaps we could talk more about his experiences in the US and mine here.  But who knew?

 

I had to finally suck it up and get dressed as the time to leave was drawing near.  I was meeting Callum not too far away at a lovely little restaurant in Kilburn called A Small Place.  My hockey teammates had raved about it, saying that it was such a cool place to go for a first date.  The food was good, the decor was funky and everything wasn’t too expensive so you never felt guilty if you got some wine or a desert.

 

I walked down the street and grabbed a bus which would lead me to the restaurant. I could barely touch my Oyster card to the monitor as my hands shook so badly.  I went to the middle of the bus and my knees were quaking as I stood there, only a few stops away from seeing Callum again.  I took a deep breath and walked off the number 16 bus, heading toward A Small Place.

 

Day 7 & 8 – the novel

(Didn’t have a very productive Sunday, so putting out what I wrote then and what I wrote today):

The day came quickly to a close with a lot less stress.  I had a few meetings with the Mentors to talk about their charges and met with my boss to talk about David and his mom.  I enjoyed my hot lunch compliments of the school.  Overall, it wasn’t too bad a day for a school counsellor.  Busy but not insane. 

 

As it was Monday, I had my hockey training in the evening from eight to ten.  I had a love-hate relationship with this evening.  Hockey is one of my favourite activities.  I get great exercise, have a lot of fun and I connect to other people.  What’s not to love?  But it’s also quite late to be playing this sport.  I get home around 10:30, shower, eat and then am in bed at around 11:15.   I wake up every weekday at 6am.  So not a huge amount of sleep at the beginning of the week.  The love of playing my sport again was, at this moment, outweighing the lack of sleep.  I had a great evening with the team, working on diving across the net and talking to the defence.  Being a goalie was so rewarding.  And yes, it was also a bit mental, with balls flying at your face and one mistake causing a change in score.  I loved it.

Back to home and I was thrilled to be one day closer to my date.  I didn’t expect to get a call, but was pleasantly surprised to have a text from Callum asking me about my day.  I texted back with all sorts of pleasantries as I didn’t think a new guy needed to hear about the stress and quite honestly, I had to keep such things confidential.

Tuesday.  It’s Tuesday.  Only two more days and a bunch of hours until I can go on my date.  I know…it’s getting pathetic that I’m so excited and thinking about it so much, but I just can’t help it.  It’s been a while.  A LONG while since I had an actual date.

 

The last two years before moving to London were spent in Boston, Massachusetts.  It was a great city and I loved living there.  But dating in Boston was a bit of a challenge.  And I had left my previous city, DC, following a bad breakup. So I wasn’t particularly interested in dating my first year though I did go out once in a while just out of boredom.  The guy I dated in Boston was in the mid-winter, just before I had decided to leave my job there.  I had decided to go the route of internet dating and he was one of the guys who popped up on my screen.  Attractive, professional and he rode a motorcycle; not a bad combo in a man.  We met at a bar in Cambridge, which was half-way between both of our homes.  And he was very nice.  We talked for an hour without stopping.  We had lots in common.  And he unfortunately looked far too much like my brother.  I tried to get over it as he was someone I really could see myself with, but it was overwhelming.  I went on a second and third date, but couldn’t get beyond that feeling of things just not being right, especially when we kissed.  It truly was the kiss of death for that relationship. So a date about so many months later was quite big news in my life.

 

I walked into our ancient shower to get ready for work.  It made a loud grown and then…nothing.  No water.  Not a single drop.  What the heck?!  I ran downstairs to the sink in the kitchen and attempted to get water from there.  Again, nothing.  What was I going to do?  What was going on?  It’s too early for this sort of crap.  Then I looked out the window and saw that our street was no longer just asphalt; it was more like a rippling stream.  The water main had busted which was the explanation for our lack of H2O.  Argh!  I knew it wasn’t all that big a deal since I had showered the night before after hockey.  Still, not what you want to deal with at 6:00am.  After eating a bowl of cereal for breakfast, I left a note for my roommate on the bathroom door, so that she could make alternative plans (she could always go to the gym), and I made my way to work, figuring I could at least get some stuff done with the extra time I had on my hands.

 

It was amazing how much emptier the tube was at this time in the morning.  Normally I had to fight for a space, no less a seat.  Taking the Underground was typically a challenge in the best of times, and rush hour was the worst.  Like most people living in London, I found time to complain about the tube.  The funny thing?  It’s really not that bad.  Yes, it’s somewhat expensive for what we get, and there are moments when it doesn’t work and really it should, but overall, it’s not half bad.  What I like about riding in the tube is watching people.  And believe me, people on the tube are fun to watch.  Take for instance, today’s group in my carriage.  Over in the corner of the tube, where you have to stand but also have a little place to prop your butt, there is a guy with his guitar.  He is resplendent with tattoos along his arms, and one (I think tears?) along his neck.  His black jeans are lightly ripped and he’s wearing a black leather vest.  He is getting eyed up by a young girl sitting across from him, who is the antithesis of the type of girl I’d imagine he’d get on with.  This young thing is dressed in the most classic of clothing; a dark grey pencil shirt, a thin piped red poplin shirt, grey heels and her requisite pearls.  Across from me was a guy who I assumed worked in construction.  His jeans were patched with white paint as was his shirt.  He had a bucket between his stretched out legs containing what looked like a few brushes and perhaps a roller.  I loved the fact that he was in what I called “the guy pose”.  You know this pose.  It’s the one where guys spread their legs wide open, taking up as much space as they can, without touching a guy next to them.  It’s like they are showing their wares off to the rest of the world.  It tends to crack me up most days (unless they are taking up my personal space…then I’m just peeved).  These are just three of the characters on the tube who entertain me as I head to work.  And my favourite game is to give them stories.

 

The musician is actually quite famous and trying to hide by being out in plain daylight.  He’s tired of running from screaming teenagers and paparazzi, and so enlisted a friend to dress like him as a diversion.  He’s loving his moments of quiet on the tube, listening to his iPod as it plays a bit of blues music (a fact that would shock his heavy metal fans).  The young girl comes from a wealthy family, but she has gone against their wishes and quit university one year in.  She still has the clothing she owned back then and was able to get a job at a small gallery.  She did this all for the love of an artist, who has unfortunately gone back to his wife.  She doesn’t regret losing the golden chains but is, right now, thinking back wistfully of her life of leisure and the fact that she could right now be in a Bentley with a driver.  The construction worker has been doing this for years.  He used to live in Poland but decided to move to London as the market for his sort of work was booming.  He left behind a lover, who was pining for him, but being a big, bold and good looking guy, he had no problem finding someone new.  He got on with his boss and the other workers, though he could hear the murmurings of some of the fellows about “them foreigners taking our jobs.”  Did I tell you I have always had a great imagination?

 

I arrived at school and went to talk to the Dean who was dealing with David, just to check in.  He seemed to be feeling a lot better and his mom had gotten him an appointment with a therapist.  I felt happy that things had progressed so well.  The conversation then turned to my experience so far at the school.  This particular person was someone who had not taken part in the mean girl behaviour at the beginning of the year, but was friends with some who had.  I talked mainly about the kids and the struggle to get to know them and break down the barriers, but then she touched upon the personal issues I had encountered.  She felt badly that some of her friends were being so mean and told me that it happened once in a while.  Somehow, faculty seemed to take on the personality of the group that they worked with; lower school teachers tended to be softer, warm & fuzzy, middle school teachers were found themselves in cliques, and the high school faculty could sometimes get a touch bitchy with one another.  She told me to give it time, and things would work out.  I didn’t really have confidence that this was true, but as I had one good friend in my roommate and had a social life outside the school, I didn’t really care all that much.  Or at least that’s what I told myself.

 

The day passed by without further incident, and my roommate told me that our landlord had investigated the flooding of our street.  We were going to be stranded without water for at least a few days, so it looked like I was going to be spending more time at our gym than I planned.  I like being fit.  And I love playing sport.  So going to a gym to workout is something that is necessary to my life.  But I hate going to the gym with a passion.  I don’t know why exactly as I feel so good after a workout is done.  But it was something that I had to push myself to do.  I think it all started after I tore my ACL (anterior cruciate ligament,) back in my days in Washington, DC.  I was on crutches and in a brace for six weeks straight and couldn’t do much exercise for almost six months.  I began to enjoy watching television much more and learned to love my couch.  I got lazy.  So now I had no excuse.  In order to shower, I had to go to the gym, and I wouldn’t just go to the gym to shower, I had to work out.  At least there, like the tube, was plenty of eye candy!

 

 

Day 6 – the novel

I have a date.  I have a date.  And he’s really cute.  Woo hoo.   I walked into school.  Okay, I actually kinda bounced into school.  Nothing, no nothing, could bum me out today.  Bring on the nasty workmates, ignoring me as much as they can.  Bring on students with problems that can hardly be solved.  Bring on anything.  I can handle it because I have a date with a cute guy. Bounce, bounce, bounce.

One should never tempt fate.

I walked into my office, with its door wide open, and saw in front of me one of the Deans and a crying boy.  David was a young lad who I had seen in the hallways but never talked to.  I heard from others that he was living with his mom and had a dad who wasn’t totally in the picture.  I didn’t even want to imagine what else was going on in his life.  Eventually, after being handed a few tissue and told to begin talking when he was able, David was able to begin.  His mom had told him this morning that she had breast cancer.  And then sent him off to school.  It wasn’t an unusual happenstance.  When in the midst of a crisis, sometimes parents just didn’t think about the repercussions for the student and for us.  Luckily, she had called the Dean at the last minute, and he had gone and found David crying in the men’s bathroom.

We sat and talked for a while, discussing where things were for his mom, and how he was going to handle the news.  We talked about the reality of breast cancer and focused on what he could control and not.  David was very close to his mom and appreciated being able to think through ways he could help her.  I didn’t want him to think about what could go wrong at that time, but to focus more on what could go right.  I needed him to be able to make it through the day, and perhaps through the week.  He’d have plenty of time to deal with the nasty side of cancer, and I’d try to help him through it all if he’d let me.  We spent about an hour that morning working through these issues, and when he left me to go to class, my final words to him were that he was welcome to come back any time he needed it.

I was exhausted.  I loved what I did, but found it mentally challenging at times.  And to start my Monday this way was even more difficult.  But I felt that I had done the right thing by David, and that always eventually buoyed me up.  I knew that I ought to talk to my supervisor and made an appointment to speak to her later that afternoon.  In the meanwhile, I needed a few minutes to prepare to teach my health class about media savvy.

Talking about the effects of media had always been one of my favourite things to do.  I had focused on these things in my thesis at school.  I loved showing kids before and after photos of models, thus letting them know that even these gorgeous ones were not perfect.  We talked about the use of sexuality and power, and why certain genders were assigned particular set roles in television and the movies.  Kids always argued and debated about it, so it made for a fun sort of class.  I needed that experience after my morning to get a bit re-energized. 

 

 

Day 5 – the novel

“So…you thought I was cute?”  I could have died, but I decided that being brazen was the way to go, and let him know in no uncertain terms that, yes, I did, and I that I had gotten the feeling that he thought I was cute as well.  It was a tactic that worked.  He smiled the great big smile that I was growing to like, and he asked me if I’d like to go and chat somewhere.  We left the main room where people were dancing, and headed to the back where there were seats and which had a touch nicer atmosphere.  Like the main room of the Underground Club, the ceilings were quite low, but the smell wasn’t so pronounced and the black grunge seemed to be absent.  We sat near the back of the room and began to talk, sharing more about our background.

 

It turned out that his family was originally from Ireland, but that his parents had moved to London for work.  His dad had been in a government job for most of his life and had recently retired with a lovely pension.  His mum had been one of those old fashioned stay at home mums; baking cookies for Callum, keeping the house spotless and making sure dinner was on the table at half past six.  Callum was an only child, and realized in a way that he had been quite spoiled.  His family didn’t have a lot of money, but his father had invested well and they had a home not too far away in the Hampstead Suburbs.  He still went to see them almost every Sunday for a roast, and enjoyed going to the races with his dad on a regular basis.  Callum enjoyed his work in business, and while he figured he’s never be rich, he did quite well.  He had lived overseas in the States for a while, and had just moved back to London last winter.  Callum was in the midst of buying a flat in West Hampstead, not too far from where we were right now.

 

I talked of my years of growing up on the campus of a boarding school, as the daughter of a teacher.  Of going to university and playing hockey, and my experiences in my field.  I told him that I never could share many details about my role as a counsellor, which some people found frustrating, but that it was a job that brought me great joy.  I shared about my personal issues with a few people at the school, and my worries about connecting to the students.  And of course, as he had spent a few years in New York City, we talked a bit about American culture and the differences we both found here, in London.

 

I couldn’t believe how well we were getting on.  It just felt so good.  And then it happened.  He got this look in his eye, grabbed my face and just kissed me.  It was so unexpected that I didn’t have my mouth entirely closed and we ended up clashing teeth.  Horror!  But we both just laughed, and tried again.  This time it worked.  And the room went quiet.  I didn’t notice a sound.  All I could feel was the touch of his lips to mine and the feel of his hands on my face.  He smelled of something a bit woodsy, and when I opened my eyes, I saw a smile that lit up his face.

 

Then he asked me a question that had been bugging him for a bit.  “Just how old are you?”  I kinda dreaded this question as I had a feeling he was younger than I by a few years.  I told him that I was thirty-five.  And he just stared at me, and said, “No way.  I thought you were twenty-five.  I don’t believe you.  You can’t be thirty-five.  No way.”  I offered to show him my driver’s licence from Pennsylvania, kept in my wallet to use at I.D.  And then I asked him for his age and my heart cringed in anticipation.  “I’m twenty-nine”, he revealed.  I knew it could have been worse, as half the team were under twenty-five.  I asked him if he thought it was a problem that I was older, and waited with baited breath.

 

He sat there looking at me, still seemingly incredulous that I was an ‘older woman’.  Apparently, he dated older women quite a lot and had thought that finally he was breaking through this habit by dating someone younger.  He had always found older women more interesting and fun for some reason, but wanted to try to become attracted to someone younger as he was always getting so much flak from friends over it.  So, no, it wasn’t a problem for him.  And then he started to laugh.

 

I breathed out.  I think I had been holding my breath the entire time.  He still liked me.  And then I thought how pathetic it was to be in my 30s and still thinking like a teenager.  He likes me, he likes me.  Oh, it never changes, does it?  And then I did something so completely out of character for me, and leaned in and kissed him.

 

Eventually, the club closed, and we had to leave.  I knew that I wanted this to go somewhere so there was no way I was going back to his place.  I didn’t want the night to end, but I also didn’t want the possibility of a relationship to end.  We stood out on the street, with the damp wind blowing cold across our skin, holding hands and just looking at each other.  I guess neither of us was sure what to do next.  Callum paused and then asked for my number, realizing that we hadn’t done an exchange.  I gave it to him and then he texted me so that I would have his.  He then looked to me and told me he’d call me the following day cause he wanted to ask me out on a date.  Wizz bang, joy, happiness, oh thank God.  I think my smile grew across my face.  He turned holding my hand and began to lead me down the street.  Um, where are you taking me?  It turned out there was a mini-cab company just around the block which he trusted, and he wanted to make sure I got home safely.  There’s no accounting for luck.  I had found a winner.

 

The next morning I woke up at around eleven.  It was not a happy moment.  My stomach was all clenched up and my forehead felt like it was going to pound through my head.  I didn’t want to open up my eyes for fear of burning my retinas in the minute sun that was coming between the curtains.  A mighty hangover had taken hold.  This was not the way I enjoyed my Sundays.  But then through a chink in my consciousness, came the remembrance of what had happened the night before.  And while I still felt like death, a glimmer of recovery shone through.  I had kissed a boy.  A very cute boy.  A cute boy whose name I could not currently remember.  Oh, shit.

 

Now you have to know something about me.  I have a problem with names.  I will meet someone, get their name, try to remember it by using all those things they tell you to do, like picturing them doing something that fit.  But I still had trouble with names.  I blame it on my problematic birth which left me close to death (a story for another time).  But for years on end, I had this problem with my memory.  And now, it was really a bad thing.  Worse, because even though he had gotten my number and name, then texted me, I had forgotten to save it with his name.  Was it Luke?  No, that’s too normal and American.  It was something unique.  Maybe…something like..no. Darn it.  What the heck is his name?  What if he calls me and I still don’t know it.  How can I go on a date without this knowledge?  How was I going to get his name?

 

The answer was, of course, by calling Millie and humbly requesting it.  I knew that she was already going to want all the details anyway, so I might as well humble myself and just do it.  I sent her a text first asking her to call me when she was up and awake.  In the meanwhile, I decided to head to the living room and watch TV with my roomie, who I was guessing would also want the gossip from the night.  I made myself coffee and a piece of toast and settled down for a few hours of recovery time.

 

At around 1:30pm, Millie called me and excitedly asked me about the rest of the night after I left with Callum.  Oh, yeah, that was his name.  Callum.  I didn’t have to humiliate myself by asking.  Whew!  I told her all the details about connecting with each other and the whole age thing saga.  She found it fascinating that I was six years senior and had also thought I was in my twenties, a fact that was quite gratifying while feeling my hangover in a way I never had at 25.  And she was thrilled that he had asked for my number and was already planning a date.  Apparently this was not how it normally worked in the hockey club.  You hooked up, met up again at another social thing, hooked up again, and then, maybe, you might meet up for drinks.  But a date?  Well that was special.

 

I didn’t expect a call to come that day, or realistically to come at all, due to my past experience with guys. So when Callum called in the afternoon to chat, I was beyond surprised.  But I never let HIM know it!  We talked for a bit about our various ailments and attempted cures, and then Callum got down to business and asked me out for dinner that week.  I had hockey training on a Monday night, his was on Tuesday.  So we decided that Thursday would be nice, as it was the end of the week and a late night would only effect our Friday.  I knew that the week would go so slowly.  It was going to be painful.

 

Day 4 – the novel

Wow.  Cute guy.  And looking kinda good in his board shorts.  Mmmm…abs.  And he’s looking my way.  What to do?  I know, it seems as if I have no problem flirting and all, as my earlier tale should tell, but when it’s someone who you might see over and over, well, then it’s a bit of a different story.  I have never dated someone at work for that reason.  I think my friends call it ’shitting on your doorstep’ or something along that vein.  So a conundrum.  Do I take up the offer in his eyes and talk to him?  As I was getting up the nerve to actually head in his direction, which luckily was the bar and so I could just be getting a drink, the music stopped and the next event was called.  People began to move about and I lost the guy in the crowd.  Oh, well, another time, I’m sure.

 

I decided to sit this one out as we had plenty of other women to join in, and I was feeling a bit woozy after the chugging contest and dancing.  The wheel barrow race was going to be done with mixed teams.  The women would be the wheel barrow with the men ‘driving’ us along.  And then it switches half way through the race.  Four of the ladies from my team were joined by four men from one of the lowest male team, the 5s.   What had to happen is that the ladies had to walk on their hands while the guys picked up their legs and walked behind them.  At the end of the room, they had to down a pint each and then turn back around and wheel barrow back to the next couple who would begin again.  As you can see, there is a pattern forming here about our ‘Olympic’ style games…it’s all about the drink.

 

Go girls, go!  This was a race I thought we could win.  The ladies 2s were quite strong; no wimpy arms here!  The first couple raced through to the pints and downed them without any effort.  I was impressed in a slightly ‘whoa’ sort of way.  As they rushed back to the next in line, the couple to their right collapsed as they clipped another group.  We were in the lead.  Yay!  Arms were askew, beer was spilled all over, and I was amazed that no one was getting seriously hurt.  We were in the lead as the last group began their lap toward a final win.  I knew we could do it.  And I couldn’t believe how excited I was getting over something so mundane.  But a competitor I am, and so I cheered as loudly as I could.  VICTORY!  I rushed the group and we did a little dance of joy, with offers of new drinks being shouted aloud.

 

As I waited by the bar for my round of drinks, a tradition I was learning all about in my time in England, I began to chat with the social chair of our club, Millie.  She was a lovely and boisterous gal from Scotland, who had befriended me right from the beginning.  I really enjoyed her company and thought she was a blast.  She had come to this exact spot at the bar to grab me.  Of course, she was respectful of the fact that the beer had to be gotten first, but some juicy gossip was surely on its way.  After dragging several pints over to my team with Millie’s help, I was ready to hear what she had to say.  And boy was it good!

 

Due to the fact that Millie had taken a spill down the spiral staircase off the porch of our club, she was not able to dance.  And quite honestly, she never really was much of a dancer.  She preferred to drink and chat with her many friends.  In talking to a bunch of the guys near the bar during my dance fest earlier, she had noticed that Callum was looking my way.  Callum was slightly an unknown quantity as he was new to the club, and had toyed with the idea of not coming tonight.  But Millie and his teammates had pressured him into it, and she wanted Callum to have a good time.  So she had kept an eye out for him, introducing him to several of the girlies in the room.  And it looked like he was having fun and meeting people in the club.  But, it looked to her like Callum might just be interested in someone he hadn’t talked to yet and she was going to make it her task tonight to get that connection going.  Eek!  No.  Don’t.  Please don’t push this.  As cute as he was and as interested as I might have been, I did not want interference.  I worked at a high school and had seen this all go wrong at that age, and I couldn’t imagine it getting any better at mine.  If he was truly interested, then it would eventually happen.  Millie needed to wait for this story to unfold, if it was to be.

 

Time for the last event called the DJ.  I don’t really recall what the game was called, because by this point I had a serious buzz going.  I just know that it required a lot of spinning and many, many drunks.  We all went out onto the grass pitch that was located next to the clubhouse.  Getting there was itself quite humorous as people stumbled down the stairs.  Sadly enough, everything seems funnier when you’ve had a couple of pints.  Our team lined up and looked across the field.  There lay a hockey stick on the ground.  What was to come next?  At the word, go, one of the team ran to the stick, picked it up, put her forehead to the top of it and twirled around five times.  Someone from another team was by our stick to make certain we didn’t cheat.  Of course the resulting chaos was worthy of quite a few giggles.  Not a single soul could recover from that twirl and we all fell or ran into each other in our dizzy state.  When done  in a sober state, this sort of thing is bad enough, but with drinks in our bellies, we were just pathetic.  I had never laughed so hard as I did during this event.  Grown men and women doing this was just too much.  It was a picture that would stay with me for years to come.

 

Feeling a bit on the not so sober side, but still holding my own, I made the wise decision to not drink a pint at this time, but went instead for a soda.  Despite the ribbing I got from the surrounding crowd who couldn’t fathom having something non-alcoholic at this time, I knew that at my age (which was probably ten years senior to most of them) the effects of drunkenness came on quicker and the results the next morning were much more painful.  And quite honestly, I was thirsty from all that dancing and a beer wasn’t going to do it for me.  I needed a cold glass of water.

 

After gulping down a few mouthfuls, and feeling a bit more refreshed, I determined that it was time to get back on that dance floor.  Still reeling a bit from the alcohol and spin moves, I wasn’t perfectly steady on my feet and accidently knocked into another person. I turned to apologize and saw that it was Callum.  I turned red. All over.  An unfortunate aspect of my biology.  I sputtered a ’sorry’ with my eyes down, ears burning with shame.  I knew it really wasn’t a big deal, but he was a guy who might or might not be interested.  There were moments I hated being a female and analyzing everything.  As I finally looked up, I saw that twinkle still residing in his eyes.  It was not a problem, he said, and he held out his hand.  As I took it, he introduced himself and said something about hearing about an American woman on the team.  He had wondered if it was me.

 

I confirmed his suspicions and told him a bit about myself.  My heart rate and all was returning to normal as I found him very easy to talk to.  I continued to sip my water as we chatted about joining this team and our amazement at how friendly and social everyone was, especially Millie.  I talked about my team experience so far, as he explained his own background of hockey.  And we both looked into each others’ eyes and smiled.

 

The DJ announced a last dance for the evening, as the club was closing at eleven.  It was the dreaded slow dance.  How awkward it felt when talking to a new guy who I found to be so fascinating and sweet.  But Callum didn’t hesitate at all, grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor.  I felt like we were in our own little bubble, glowing happily with warmth.  And then I looked up to see my entire hockey team with Millie staring right at us.  Oh, the hell I was going to receive in the not too distant future.

 

The dance ended and we drew apart. I don’t know why, but I felt a bit nervous. But a smile from Callum made me feel so much better, and he asked me if I was going to the late night club with my team.  I hadn’t really thought about it, and didn’t know who was going, but I knew one thing; I didn’t want the evening to end.  Callum said he had to chat with his teammate but that he’d meet up with me at the club, and I scurried over to my gang to find out about their plans.  I had forgotten the fact that they had seen the slow dance.  Playful ribbing commenced, which, of course, made me blush. Awwww.  How cute.  She likes him.  Oh, God, save me.  But eventually after I told them his name and what team he played for (the Men’s 2s), the talk turned to where to go next.  A few of them were leaning toward going to a party, while a couple suggested the club.  I hadn’t been to the club, and as I said that, all plans changed…they wanted to see my reaction to The Underground Club.

 

We all changed into jeans, not trusting the clientele of the club to understand our interesting outfits.  And then off we went, walking the short distance to the High Street and the after- hours club.  After paying our entrance fee, we went down a set of stairs and through a narrow hallway.  We dropped off our bags and then entered the club.  It wasn’t high class, and some would even say it was a dive.  The ceilings were low, and the floor was covered in beer and some sort of black slime.  It smelled a humanity too tightly packed and alcohol in abundance.  While there were other people there, the hockey club had taken over, and the bar and dance floors were heaving.

 

I figured it was time for another beer after a teammate offered to buy, and followed her to the bar.  There I ran into Millie who pumped me for information about what was going on with Callum.  There wasn’t much to tell, other than I thought he was cute and enjoyed his company, and that I was hoping he might turn up so we could meet again.  It was then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and knew as I turned, that it was him.

 

A fellow NaNo blogger

http://euphonious-wandering.blogspot.com/

If you want to read another ‘novel’ over the month, the blog above is for you!

 

 

Day 3 – the novel

Mel was a bit hesitant to begin talking about what was really bothering her.  I knew that she really wanted to say something important, but wanted to allow her to ease into it, so I told her that we had plenty of time and that she could speak about what was bothering her when she was ready.  As long as it wasn’t about her harming herself, the school or someone else, it could be kept very confidential.  I handed over the tissues as the tears came out.  She had gone to the party expecting it to be like every other one.  But this time, the boy that she really liked was there.  He never went to any of the parties as he was just too focused on making it in sport and played in a league out of town quite regularly.  Mel tried to play it cool, but found herself talking to the boy by the middle of the night.  Both of them had gotten quite drunk.  She never hooked up with people at parties, she furiously relayed to me.  Too many bad things came out of that, from the strong rumour mill at school to the emotional wreckage she had seen in her friends during their sophomore year.  But somehow, she didn’t know why, they ended up in a bedroom.  From there her memories got a bit fuzzy but she knew that she had done some things with this boy that she wasn’t very proud of.  She was so ashamed.  How could she do this to herself?  Mel wasn’t a prude, but she never, ever just hooked up.  And she didn’t really know how far she went or if they had used protection.  And that freaked her out even more.  Where does one go if you want to get things checked out?  Who could she talk to?  Was it all confidential?  Would her mom find out?

 

We continued to talk throughout the class time about how to deal with the consequences of her actions.  She could handle the buzz that was happening amongst her peers.  The boy was luckily denying that anything had happened, which was so rare for a teenage boy.  And after a while she began to feel better about her health options.  But most of all, she had learned a valuable lesson about alcohol and attraction.  And she knew that it was a lesson she wanted the younger kids to hear about.  Despite the fact that it could be a bit awkward, she wanted to talk to her Mentoring group about the negative side to the party scene.  Luckily it was something that was already planned for all the groups, but I knew her group would end up with something a bit more special.

 

***

 

The first big social was happening at the hockey club.  The theme was the Olympics and I was told that I would be dressing up in costume, or fancy dress, along with my team, the Ladies 2s.  My teammates decided that being gymnasts would be easy and cheap; all we would need would be tights and either a one piece bathing suit or a leotard.  As I had lost a bit of weight in my first month in England due to walking just about everywhere, I wasn’t too scared of that much exposure.  And I was reassured that I’d be surrounded by many other players with similar bodies.  (It sucks that we never seem to lose that body issue thing even in our thirties.)

 

My biggest concern was with the drinking aspect. So far in the season, on those random Saturday nights, I had kept reasonably sober.  Fears of another ‘incident’ happening with my new friends, and me losing them, were driving me a bit mad.  I didn’t know what to expect.  So with a bit of trepidation, I joined them all at our captain’s house in Maida Vale before we made our way to the clubhouse.  The first sight that greeted me as I entered was of a row of shots on the table in the lounge.  Clearly these girls liked to drink and drink hard.  Not a shot taker, I knew this would be a challenge, but with a beer in my hand as a chaser, I downed it in one gulp.  We all stripped to our costume and began to add small details such as hair being tightly pulled away from our head and an extra layer of mascara.  None of us even looked close to the size or shape of a gymnast but we just didn’t care.  As the alcohol coursed through out veins, we knew we could laugh away any critiques that we received.  It was going to be a fun night!

 

Tumbling out of our taxis, we first ran into one of the men’s teams who were dressed in track suits with thick headbands to ‘trap the sweat’.  They said that they were representing the Hungarian wrestling team.  Not the most creative, but at least they gave it a go.  And to be honest, a few of them were very, very cute!  We walked through the car park, which was virtually empty to no one’s surprise (cause we’re very big on not drinking and driving you know).  Up the stairs and into the clubhouse, and behold, a plethora of slightly intoxicated men and women were on display.  We saw everything from guys baring their chests while in Speedos (swimmers) to women in trackies in English colours.  It had been a difficult assignment, but we all tried our best, but the winners of the evening were the guys who came as metals; gold, silver and bronze.  We were impressed!

 

Events began to take place as the evening continued, and we did things I had never heard of, which were supposedly the norm in UK universities.  The first event was a boat race.  What came to my mind was something that involved movement or running as we were drinking.  How wrong I was!  A group of six people from every team was asked to line up, sitting one in front of the other.  Full pints of beer or cider were placed in our hands, ready to go.  The last person in the race is called the anchor and should be able to just chug a beer without any problem.  Now.  I have to tell you.  I had not done this sort of drinking since university.  Yes, I’d been to parties in my 20s where we drank a goodly amount, but chugging was something I thought I’d outgrown.  That was not to be.  I was selected by my team due to being a lovely newbie to do this “horrible” event.  Never the chugger in the first place, I figured I’d just get on with it and if I had to puke, I’d run quickly to the nearest exit.

 

“On your marks.  Get set.  Go!!!”, was yelled with wild abandon.  And the drinking commenced.  I was fortuitously placed in the front and so felt a lot less pressure than those toward the rear.  I drank as quickly as I could and then placed the empty pint on my head as instructed.  Luckily, we were all wearing swim suits, as the excess splashed all over my front and back.  Yes, my dad would surely be proud.  I still couldn’t believe I was doing this.  Slug, slug, slug.  The beers went down quickly and the crowd became ever more animated as each team approached the end of their crew.  We tried our best, but could not beat the ever ready team of young men who played for the Men’s 4s.  While primarily made up of youngerish players, we were not just out of university like most of them.  But we still did ourselves ‘proud’ by finishing third.

 

As the last of the groups’ standings was announced to the crowds, our resident DJ began to play some rockin’ music.  I have to start off with a little aside, just so you can start to understand me more.  I love to dance.  When I was in middle school and the boys would stand on one side of the dance floor while the girls stuck resolutely to the other, I would be in the middle dancing away.  Despite my typical fears of being labelled an utter geek, and being relegated to the nether regions of the social forces, when the music came on, I just didn’t care.  I even danced at a high school social with my mom standing there as a chaperone.  Many of my friends didn’t quite get it and came to the dances just to be seen, and then sloped off to smoke or drink.  But I found a small few who would dance the night away with me, and I was never happier in those misfit years.

 

The music blared away and I rallied my team to the floor.  We took over to the delight of many a male guest.  About six of us, slithering sights in our trim outfits, kept the DJ going, while the rest of the club went back to get another drink.  It was some time into the third song of the evening, before we were to break up for another event, when I saw him.  He stood there, by the bar, not fighting the crowds for a drink but facing outward to the dance floor.  He had the typical build of our hockey lot, tallish and moderately athletic.  His dark hair rakishly stood up on end, most likely the result of too much gel and a beer injection.  But what I noticed most, as I twirled and turned to the song, was that I could see, even from several feet away, that he had a twinkle in his eyes, and that those same eyes were directed at me.

 

Day 2 – The novel

It’s hard to live in a foreign country after giving up your friends and family and then have a group of people who barely know you act as if you are the devil.  I hadn’t felt an ounce of homesickness in the first month of being in England, but after that first week of complete humiliation, I just wanted to go home. Yes, I had one friend in my flatmate, who defended me to the hilt, but it just didn’t feel like enough.  Still I’m a stubborn cuss, as many people were going to discover.  I may have felt beaten inside but no one was going to know about it.  I put on a brave and confident face for the world to see.  And luckily I found the answer to my friendship problem…a field hockey club!

 

The West Hampstead Hockey Club was the answer to my dreams of making friends with people in England.  Many teachers and staff at the school were sucked into the vortex of American friendships to the exclusion of all others.  What was the point of living in a different culture and country if you only hung out with Americans?  So I knew I had to find something, and hockey was it.  I had played Division One field hockey in college and had missed the competitive nature.  I loved the sport and had been coaching it for year.  It was now MY turn to actually play.  I had no expectations that I’d play at a high level due to the fact that I was in my 30s and, well, hadn’t played for about 10 years.  For me it was going to be all about a social life.  And West Hampstead had that in spades…while players were competitive, the social life was king.

 

My first exposure to the group was on the official Play Day.  We would get into small groups of random levels and just play.  As I hadn’t communicated with anyone about the fact that I was a goalie, there wasn’t any equipment for me to use.  So I went out and played on the pitch for the first time in my life.  It was fun, and I had enough stick skills to survive due to my coaching experiences.  But it wasn’t quite the same.  In addition, I knew that I was being watched as the club was always on the lookout for high level players.  Once I relayed to the people in charge that I normally played in goal, I was invited to try out for the Ladies 3s and/or 4s.  An appropriate level to start with, was my initial thoughts, as I had no clue as to the level goalies tended to be.  Little did I know that goalies in club hockey are highly prized, and so just by being me and a goalie, I was going to make a large number of people happy.  And so I did.  I went to the first training session and worked hard at my sport.  Within the first half hour, the coaches asked if I would be willing to come to the next day’s session to work with the Ladies 1s and 2s as they felt that I was a much better goalie than another who already played for the 2s.  Woo hoo!  I still had it!  Even though I was in my mid-30s, I was good to go.

 

Socially, it was the best decision I could have made.  Once a week, I was out of the house and going to a training session.  Some nights, after training, we’d gather at a local pub for drinks.  I didn’t do the late night thing too often as I had to get up much earlier than most of my teammates, but I tried to do it regularly.  And then there were the Saturday night socials.  Every Saturday night there were bound to be players from both the Men’s and Ladies’ teams hanging around, chatting, watching sport and drinking the much cheaper alcohol of the clubhouse.  I got to know the big social players in the club and was constantly invited out on the town.  What a godsend!

Back at school, I was finding my first month to be one filled with interesting challenges, slight frustrations and great achievements.  In other words, it was a normal time in a school as a teacher, coach and counsellor.  I was so excited about the new experiences I would have at the school, and one that came at me right from the beginning was getting to know the kids.  If you don’t already know it, counselling is seen as something less than positive, even by American teens.  Yeah, there’s all that ‘talk’ about everyone in America having a shrink and everyone talking about everyone else’s issues, but the reality is, no teenager wants to be seen asking for psychological help.  So my task as a high school counsellor is to get on the good side of the student body, to make them see just how cool a geek I can be, and to just be known.  It’s a lot harder than you’d imagine, as most students base their thoughts about counselling on the person who was either there before, or a past experience with someone at a previous school.  And let me tell you, there are a bunch of wacky weirdoes who go into my chosen profession, and some who can get a bit too pushy with the kids.  So every counsellor who is new to a high school has a tough job to find a good balance between the soft, warm, fluffy caring person and the hard-nosed, tough love, bastard.

 

So how to do it?  How to become known as a cool person.  How to make your office a place that kids might want to just hang out in and chat?  There are a few key things you have to have and do.  One, make sure that you have comfortable places to sit.  My office was huge and so I not only had a table and chairs for chatting with parents, but I also had some slightly stuffed seats for just hanging out and talking.  So far, so good, though I kept my eyes open for a cheap couch or futon which I could put in my space.  Second, have good food on offer.  My supervisor was very happy to provide a budget for candy, so I always had a decent selection of chewy yummy items on hand.  Getting there.  Finally, you have to have a way ‘in’ with a group of students who will spread the world of your wonderfulness to others.  And that was what I needed to work on.

 

I hoped that I could use an established group to make in-roads.  The Student Mentors were a group I was to work with right from the beginning.  They in turn worked with younger students to help them adjust to a new school, high school in general and a new culture (if they came from outside of London).  The group had been selected by the previous counsellor, so I figured they’d be wonderful to work with.  And quite a few were wonderful.  Slowly, as we met on a weekly basis, the Mentors got to know who I was and I got to know them.  I learned about who was the best athlete, who worked hard at school and who had just done this for to try to find a way to get into college.  We talked about the problems the freshmen faced, and the issues that juniors and seniors have to deal with.  A bit of trust was established along the way.

 

Their favourite thing to talk about with the younger kids was about alcohol and drugs.  It was an eye-opener for someone from the States.  Pubs served our students even at the age of 14.  There was a student pub that no faculty member ever went to for fear of running into the little cherubic faces all glassy-eyed with beer.  Students relayed stories of parties that just blew my mind.  But they never knew that an education was taking place for me.  The nerdy girl from PA acted as if she had seen and heard it all.  Nothing fazed me.  And it worked, because they shared even more.

 

One young woman, from the Mentor group, came to my door first thing on a Monday with tears in her eyes.  Mel was seventeen year old senior and a long-timer at the school.  Most of the students wanted to be her, as she was wealthy, tall, thin and gorgeous.  She just always looked as if her act was together.  How could anything EVER go wrong in HER life?  She was the “It Girl” of our international school.

 

As she sat down on the chair near my desk, I noticed that she was shaking, and so I asked her what was wrong.  She had been at a party on Saturday night.  It was one of the big ones held at the house of a student whose parents were out of town (a regular occurrence at our school).  It wasn’t meant to be so huge, but word had gotten out through MySpace, and a large number of our students as well as outsiders had shown up.  The place had been trashed.  But that wasn’t what had upset Mel.  For her, it was a typical party when you had to hire a clean-up crew and explain to your parents about the broken vase or TV.  What had gone wrong for her was much more personal.

 

Day 1 – the novel

Please note that while this story comes from my life, I have not written about any particular students or parents with whom I have worked.  This is fiction.  The stories about counselling are based on general therapeutic moments which every school counsellor may have.  The stories about my life outside school are a bit more realistic, but the names and some of the situations have been changed to protect the innocent.

Movement

“People grow through experience if they meet life honestly and courageously. This is how character is built.”  Eleanor Roosevelt, My Day,
(1884 – 1962)

How did I get into this?  What made me think that being a high school counsellor would be a good thing for me?  It’s definitely not a job that most people would want.  And when I announce what I do to new people, a look of almost horror seems to cross their faces before they can say, “How interesting.”  Right now I’m a counsellor in London, England, where therapy is growing but still not the norm.  As you can imagine, this is something that receives quite a few comments.  And has made dating a bit of a challenge, cause who wants to be with someone who analyzes your every move? (“Oh, wait, isn’t that was every woman does to some extent”, I was once asked)

I remember back to the days of being in high school.  I went to a small private school in the 80s.  It was the land of the Preppy Handbook, with Lacoste shirts and LeSportsac bags.  There was quite a bit of the local wealth there.  My mom worked there, and so I always felt a bit awkward as we didn’t have the money nor the prestige for me to be in the socially acceptable groups.  I have to admit that when “Pretty in Pink” came out, I could identify with Andie.  My mode of dress was a bit of prep mixed with alternative chick.  If I was a teen now, I guess they would have termed me a Goth.  I was in the ’smart group’ and I played sports at the highest level.  As you can imagine, I didn’t really fit in any group.  The athletes wonderred at my dress, the smart kids worried about my athletic bent and the alternative kids just didn’t get the smart athlete at all.  But I muddled through with the normal teenage angst, and was happy to see the backside of my school.

The one thing that I always felt was missing was some adult to talk to.  We all thirsted for that, even if we denied any interest.  The school counsellor at the time was a crusty old dude, who was caring, but didn’t quite connect with me or my friends.  I really wanted to speak to a young adult woman, someone like me, but there just didn’t seem to be any around.  And so, even at that age of 18, I knew that I wanted to change that for other teenage girls.  In college, I studied a lot of different things, but psychology became my focus.  I felt it was something I would eventually get into.

I did try out other things as a young adult, such as retail and marketing.  And I was good at them, but I found them to be boring.  They just didn’t ‘fit’.  And so, finally, I went back to school and became a high school counsellor.  And it does fit.  I’m happy.

I started my career in the US, working at several private schools.  Day schools, boarding schools, you name it, I tried it.  And it was FUN!  But I just wasn’t ready to settle down until I got to my current job overseas.  My wacky sense of dress, still mixed of prep and black, seems to be the norm here.  My need for connection and desire for a unique setting is totally fulfilled.  It’s just such a cool place to be.

So here’s my story; one about a woman who is living overseas, working in an international private school with wealthy Americans. A page turning, I’m telling you.

It’s not every teacher’s dream to work overseas.  In fact, I’d garner a guess that many people living in the States would think I’m a bit nuts to leave “the greatest country in the world.”  And perhaps I am.  But ever since my mom took a year off to work in another country, I’ve had the bug.  And so every year after I got my degree, I applied for overseas work.  The first few years I was told that I just didn’t have the experience, so I kept plugging away, getting new experiences.  Then eight years in, while applying for new jobs both in the States and overseas, I was given the chance to interview via the phone with a school in Japan.  Ultimately it was not the job for me, but I knew that the next time I was interested in a new position, I would be up for a lot more possibilities across the pond.  And two years later, it was confirmed, a job in Merry Old England.

 

It was a dream come true.  Moving to a new land where I knew the language, and to a culture I had studied in college.  The land of the Celts, of pubs and puddings, had always captured my imagination.  And it was now to be my reality.  While nervous about leaving the friends, family and life I knew, it was the adventure I had been waiting for.  And so I packed up a few bags of clothing, shipped my books and measuring cups, and took off to find a place to live in London.

Originally I was meant to move in with a current faculty member, but she had decided to skip out of town and return to the States.  What to do, what to do?  I put feelers out and found another young woman, new to the school, who needed a flatmate.  And she even worked in the high school so I’d have some connections.  Best of all…she was from the same state as me, so we had something really in common.  She had arrived a week earlier and found us the best house available at that time for our price.  Where we were going to live was a rambling old house with three bedrooms and one bath.  It had a back garden, or back yard as we call it in the US.  The appliances weren’t really up to date and overall, it was a bit dingy, but I fell in love with the features such as a built-in kitchen cupboard in the dining area and the coving in the living room.  Just a very cool house.  And best of all it was just a ten minute walk to the tube for a ten minute journey or a thirty minute walk directly to school.

The neighbourhood where I lived was very multicultural, and had an ‘up and coming’ sort of feel to it.  The ‘high street’ where you could get almost everything you wanted had lots of pound shops and cheap clothing options, alongside a lovely butcher and fish monger.  I had to learn how to shop, as these places closed quite early compared to the US ones and had ingredients and items which I had never even heard of.

On one side of our house, we had the friendliest of neighbours.  James and Ellen were a nimble older couple who enjoyed their retirement.  The front garden was gorgeous with  a multitude of flowers.  They stopped by my first week to welcome me to the neighbourhood and provided me with a map of all the local delights.  A friendly word was offered every time we met. On the other side of the house, the neighbours tended to stick to themselves, but provided us with lots of violin and piano music as the woman was a music teacher.  Some of it was good, some of it…well, let’s just say that I’m glad it wasn’t happening while I was trying to eat or sleep.

My first few days at the school were a total whirlwind.  I expected it to be the case as being new anywhere is going to be a bit mad, but it was even more crazed that I had prepared for.  We were at school by 8am, if not earlier, and had hours of meetings every day.  Taking in all the information they were attempting to feed us was mind boggling.  I knew I’d forget half of it.  At the same time, all of us new faculty were attempting to learn how to use our washing machines, figuring out the best locations for drying racks, yelling in the phone at the cable company who wanted us to be available for twelve hours just to install a box.  We were learning about customer service, or lack thereof, along side of lessons on using the copier.

The social experiences at my new school were mixed.  And I have to admit that they felt a bit like I was back in high school again.  We were taken around by returning faculty who were part of an orientation team.  Our first big event was a pub run.  Now, I want to preface this story by saying that I do like to drink, but I wouldn’t call myself a big drinker, and I didn’t realize that beer here is stronger and the pints a bit bigger.  I think you might know where this is heading…

Stella Artois is called ‘wife beater’ for a reason.  It has a high level of alcohol and it seems to get at your emotional center very quickly.  And if you drink a few of them after weeks of not drinking at all, well, your inhibitions might carry you away.  We went from a standard pub close to the school to a loud boisterous Australian bar, resplendent with a dancing mob of foreigners.  As someone who likes to dance even in my most sober moments, it was a chance to shine.  I found plenty of partners in crime with whom to sway my generous hips.  And I gave my digits to a fair number of them, with a peck on the lips to one or two of the more fair of them.  Little did I know that a few of the members of my newbie party were not having such success and were grumbling behind my back.

I returned to school on Monday to find myself just about ostracized.  Rumours were abounding about how much of a slut I was, and people who were on the orientation committee were blanking me with cold stares.  I just didn’t get it.  What did I do to deserve this?  A few kisses and dances?  I’m a prude I wanted to shout.  I have that New England mentality when I haven’t had a few drinks.  I’m a tease.  And I didn’t try to get so drunk.  But I just had the sense that my story wasn’t going to be heard.  Like high school, I wasn’t going to fit.

 

National Novel Writing Month

I do not consider myself a great writer.  I enjoy writing notes to myself on this blog and sometimes I do have a moment or so of brilliance…but I’m NOT a writer, unlike some people whose blogs I read.  But I read about the National Novel Writing Month on the International Newlyweds page…and now want to try it.  It will be a challenge, but I’m going to try to use my blog to do this.  May not get to writing every day but will try to write the 50,000 word novel by the end of the month…which will be about 12,500 words per week.  So…what to write about?  I think it may be somewhat ‘real’…but not.  Stay tuned to this blog, cause I’ll be doing the writing on it!