“You can have my job,” I offer.
“Ha,” she spits, spraying popover pieces across thetablecloth. “Been there, done that. Teaching is way too hard. I wantsomething part-time, where I can come and go as I choose.”
“Like Sophie the Bag Lady,” I say.
“Exactly!”
I throw out some ideas. “You could tutor. Or walk dogs.”
“Or tutor dogs!” she adds.
“Or become the local Lice Lady!”
“Lee always says I’m such a nitpicker.” We laugh as shereaches for a second popover. “Plus, I really miss dressing up.”
I stop chewing midchew. Suddenly, her desire to work makesperfect sense. That’s really why Jodi wants to go back to work, notbecause she’s bored. Jodi longs for a cool, new, employment-worthy wardrobe.
“You’re not serious.” I don’t ask this as if it’s aquestion. I declare it outright.
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “If I worked, I couldbuy so many great outfits. Like those new wide-leg trousers on themannequin on the second floor. I covert them, but I don’t need them.”
“Covet,” I correct.
“See? You like them, too. Only, I would look silly wearingthem to a PTA meeting. For that setting, I’d look much better in my skinnyjeans and a Vince asymmetrical tee. That says, like, ‘I’m chair of the bookfair’ without overstating my own importance.”
“Spoken like someone who doesn’t have a job.” You knowyour life is unfulfilled when you spend inordinate amounts of time plottingoutfits for meaningless occasions.
But as much as I joke about Jodi’s logic, the thought ofstay-at-home motherhood makes me sigh. “I’d love to be a PTA mom in a Vinceasymmetrical tee.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Jodi shakes her knife at me. “You haveno idea, Lauren. None. The PTA is like the mob. Once they get you intheir grip, they won’t let you go. First it’s ‘Oh, won’t you please help outserving pizza lunch?’ and then it’s ‘Could you chaperone the band concert?’—allsmiles and friendly camaraderie—and finally, it’s ‘We’ve signed you up to chairthe multicultural lunch, the staff appreciation day and the charity auction,and if you cancel, we’ll blacklist your kids from getting the best teachers.’”She sighs. “I kind of want to go back to work just to avoid having to make anymore excuses to the PTA. I mean, how many herniated discs can one have when theannual fundraiser rolls around? How many sinus surgeries coinciding with theschool fair? I joined the PTA to see my kids more often around school, only Igot so busy working for the PTA that I never see my kids anymore.”
Hands shaking, Jodi reaches across the table and snatchesup my untouched popover. She rips off a chunk and chews it sensually, with eyesclosed. I almost feel bad for her.
Almost.
“Lauren, you just want what you can’t have. Trust me, it’sall of the work—or more—without any of the pay, or any of the glory.”
“What glory is there in teaching?” I want to know.
She puts down her cutlery so that she can create grandhand gestures. “You know, being loved by your adoring fans.”
“They’re eleven-year-olds.”
“And they love you, and think you are so cool, and tellyou all their problems, and want to be just like you when they grow up.Students are so much better than one’s own children that way.” Now it’s herturn to sigh.
We are both quiet for a minute, lost in our ownreflections. When I started teaching, people used to tell me that I picked theperfect career to balance with eventual motherhood. “You’ll have your summersoff, and you’ll vacation when your children do, and you’ll get out of work justas they end their day in school,” yentas at the nail salon would say. And Iwould cringe, because I thought, That’s so small-minded of them. I’m notgoing into teaching in order to pick a career that works for a life I don’teven have yet. I’m going into teaching to shape lives, to change the world.
And now, you know what I think? I think all those yentashad it totally backward. Because, yes, I have school-age children now. And whenthey go to school, I go to work. And when they are home from school, I am homefrom work. Their vacations are my vacations. Their free time is my free time.
Do you see the inherent problem, here?
I never get time off without them. I never have a vacationday that is not also their vacation day.
I can’t just take a holiday whenever I want to, because Ialready have something like fifteen weeks off a year built in to my schedule.And so, on my teacher’s salary, I travel during the most expensive black-outdates, with my children, natch, and wherever I go, other school-age childrenand families are there, because everyone in the free world is on schoolvacation concurrently, yelling out “Marco” and “Polo” and annoying me while I’mtrying to read poolside.
Teaching has become a kind of vacationer’s prison.
I shudder at the truth of that and tell Jodi, “Yeah—teaching’snot the right move for you anymore.”
“Actually, I do have one idea,” she hintstheatrically.
“Okay,” I say.
“I’m thinking this.” She pushes herself back from thetable and sort of makes a frame with her palms. “I’m thinking…that I shouldbecome famous.”
She stops. I wait.
Famous for what, I wonder?
Then I realize I’m supposed to respond.
“Famous! That’s an…interesting idea.” Is there such athing as being just famous?
“I know!” She pours some ketchup and digs into theburger that has been gently placed in front of her. Between bites—and duringthem—she continues.
“It’s just that when I go to the city, I feel like I’m somebody,you know? People notice me. They think I’m in fashion, working for amagazine or for a mega-designer like Balenciaga. They ask me if I’m in theart world.”
“And…are you?” I ask, wondering if Jodi has some secrettalent in design. Maybe she’s set up an artist’s loft above her garage and isgoing to become this new, self-taught, amazing painter. The mother of postmaterialism.Maybe she’s been scribbling poems day and night like Emily Dickinson, and hasdrawers filled with tiny scraps of brilliance.
I take a bite of some melon on my plate and wish I had redmeat instead.
“No! I’m not there yet. So,
