I am convinced that teacher's lead shorter lives. It isn't that the years of our life expectancy are abbreviated by the stressfull factors of our field (though that is a certain possibility), so much as it is that the years we enjoy happen to be themselves abbreviated, truncated, . . . shorter.
Abbreviation, truncation, shorter version of the above ramble: Time flies when you're a teacher.
Perhaps it is more accurate to describe the life of a teacher as fast.Like the bullet from Angelina Jolie's gun in Wanted or Keanu Reeves in the Matrix, teachers, if they are to successfully accomplish their mission, must move at a rate of speed disproportionate to the world around them.
A real-life example: One day, I was (speed) walking down the hall during my conference period, on my way to wade through the small wheel-barrow load of paper that had accumulated in my box over the last several minutes. Up ahead, a student, bathroom pass in hand, was making his way towards me en route to the boys room. As the distance between us closed, he suddenly jerked around as if someone had tapped him on the shoulder. After surmising that the hallway was completely devoid of life save himself and me, the speed-walker yet to pass him, he shot his glance back my way.
"What the heck was that?" popped the perplexed pupil.
"What do you mean?" I said. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I think maybe I have!" quipped the leary lad." I felt this breeze across my face, and something brushed against my arm. But when I turned around, there was no one there! Am I going crazy?"
"Relax," I consoled. "Chances are you just walked in range of an air vent when the AC switched on or . . ."
He cut in. "I don't think so! I heard a voice and could smell . . . , " He gave a shudder. ". . . coffee breath!"
His shocked countenance gave way to increasingly fearful notions as he recounted the incident.
"You heard a voice? What was it saying?"
His eyes looked off to the side and his hands wringed thoughtfully at his chest as he attempted to reconstruct what had happened in such a finite moment in time.
"It said something over and over, something about Christmas. Oh yeah, I remember! It said, "Two weeks until Christmas; two-weeks until Christmas . . ." I think it kept repeating, but I can't be sure. It all happened so fast!"
"Ah, I see." I placed my hand on his shoulder, helping him get a handle on the moment. "That was definitely not the AC and it was certainly no ghost. Most likely, you came in close contact with a H.S.S.S.S.C.R.V.M.S.T." You're lucky to be alive!"
"A what!?" he asked, bewildered.
"A Hyper-Sonic-Super-Stressed-Stoked-on-Caffeine-Ready-for-Vacation-Middle-School-Teacher. The school's full of 'em. In short, they are teachers who have been forced to develop super-human capabilities in order to keep up with the demands of public education. Most of the time, they are moving so fast, the only clue to their presence is a passing, mumbling, coffee-scented blast of air. That's why it's always a good idea to steer clear of the center of the hallway."
"Oooooh, " he chimed, the pieces of the puzzle coming together in his head. "That's why my teacher's always telling me to walk on the right side! Well, what about you? You're not moving at hyper-sonic speeds. You're just speed-walking."
"Oh, well, that's because I'm new. I won't get my hyper-sonic license until next year."
