I don’t know when teaching stopped being a career people valued. It seems that every time I bring up my major, the first question out of someone’s mouth is, “What are you going to do with that?” And that instantly takes the smile off my face. It’s taken me a long time to come to the decision that I can do what I want to do, and sacrifice nothing. I don’t have to be a doctor or lawyer, because neither of those things will make me completely happy. A doctor’s life is stressful but infinitely rewarding, but I’m not great with stress and insomnia. Or Biochemistry. And frankly, I don’t like law very much. I like suits. Sometimes. And pinstripes. But law means legal codes and, in family courts, bitter people, sad people, angry people. That’s not for me.
But I have always loved teaching. I’ve been doing it unconsciously for years, just as long as I’ve been stealing office supplies and training Sandy to open doors (she’ll get there, just you wait). It’s something I’m comfortable with, something I know I can handle, and I think it would be a lot of fun. We have several excellent teachers in my family, so I don’t know why my mom still won’t stop trying to change my mind. Maybe it’s not as prestigious or as lucrative as law or medicine. Maybe she likes pinstripes just as much as I do, and regrets that I won’t be able to wear them while I smash someone’s face in with the GAVEL OF JUSTICE, but honestly? Those are minor concerns. I know I will have at least enough money for room and board and my ridiculous IKEA addiction (it’s like crack, but with a birch veneer). And above all, I’ll be happy.
That should be the end of the discussion right there. It is what I want to do. No more questions, no more, “But what about dentistry? (I hate teeth, I hate people’s mouths, I am chronically afraid of halitosis)” I’ve made my decision, so everybody else get on board or shut it, because the GAVEL OF JUSTICE is coming.
I’ve written about being vegetarian before. And I think I’ve made a little booboo. Okay, a huge, monstrous, mother of a booboo. Or two. Oh boy.
As a preface, I have to say that my mother’s diet gets more and more restrictive every year, mostly for religious/personal reasons. I think she’s in a, “What other weird seeds can I put on my cereal today” phase (the answer is flax, which doesn’t sound appealing at all). She recently dropped out onions and garlic (and derivatives), which I still don’t understand, but that’s not the pertinent issue.
The problem is eggs.
I didn’t know my mom didn’t eat eggs for a long time, mostly because she made so many allowances with what we could eating growing up that I just assumed she ate the same stuff. So whenever we baked or bought cookies, which contained eggs, I assumed she ate them from time to time. Then she got hooked on waffles. Eggo waffles. She loves them, and I love them, and they’re one of the few non-Indian foods we share anymore. Which is why I can’t bring myself to tell her they have eggs in them, even if it’s right there on the label. I’m pretty sure it will evoke some horrible sense of guilt in her — even though eggs are technically vegetarian — and she might eat me in my sleep.
Cannibalism is not vegetarian, just FYI.
Maybe I’m taking this too far. Maybe it’s a harmless omission for my mom. But not for my grandma, who has probably never had eggs before. And who ate a waffle yesterday. The guilt starts with my mom, but when I found out that my grandma had eaten one, I was on the verge of reading out the ingredients there and then.
Back from the brink
But two angry Indian women doesn’t seem much better than two contented Indian women.
The question is, where do I draw the line? If not at eggs, then what? There are so many questionable “vegetarian” products that even someone who is as conscious and anal about this stuff as I am has a hard time.
Even though I must seem like an asshole for doing this, I am extremely careful when I shop for my mom and grandma. I make sure there’s no onion or garlic, no eggs, low sugar, no fat. I check and double check the ingredients. I understand that, whatever my standards are in this weird and sometimes baffling food culture, their standards are far higher. So I have to pay attention.
I have just under a month before I start working, and I just realized that this is basically the way I’ve treated the entire last month or so of school, if not all of April and May combined. Aside from waking up and going to class, turning in papers and assignments, taking notes, cramming lunch breaks into ten-minute binges of pizza and juice, scheduling naps whenever and wherever there’s a free hour/fifteen minutes, and using Hulu as a way to keep myself from doing anything at all until after 11 PM — you know, all that college stuff — I’ve pretty much done exactly what I would be doing in Austin right now at home. Nothing. I have a month off, and my only accomplishment for the five or so days I’ve been home is I’ve killed a mountain of roaches, and I’ve moved a bottle of Goldbond lotion to my nightstand so I can slather all of the mosquito bites I got … yesterday, while watching old Scrubs and Doctor Who episodes on my DVR.
If this is the good life, I sort of want my old busy life back. With deadlines and responsibilities. I did say “sort of.” Everyone needs a break. I just find huge gaps of free time just a little more suffocating than actually sitting down and getting something done.
There is one encroaching deadline: Remember how I said I would get my novel done by June 30th? It was a pipe dream to begin with. My new goal is less impressive. I have to finish the first book (another 2,000 words or so) in the next few days so I can print everything I have so far, edit it extensively with a red pen (this is the fun part), and submit it by June 2nd for my free proof copy. I did my math wrong, it turns out.
I’m a little bummed for two reasons. First, I wish I had more of my book done. If I just worked at it a little harder, I think I might have at least been able to make some headway. But I know that I don’t have that sort of discipline unless I’m actually setting goals for myself. “Finish the book” is vague and unhelpful. “Write 2,000 words,” on the other hand, is something I can deal with.
Secondly, little did I know that “free proof copy,” doesn’t mean that you’ll get a manuscript copy of your book. You get an actual book. This is driving my life-long perfectionist streak up the wall, because I just know something’s going to go badly. Maybe it won’t matter because I’ll be holding the first part of my book in my hands. But there’s always the chance that I’ll open to one of the biggest scenes in the first part, and go, “Oh god, that was supposed to be an apostrophe.” And my world will just crumble around my feet.
Thank goodness no one but me has to read this yet. I just might die of shame.
