This is because the class was merely your standard home economics class, renamed so as to appeal to middle school students- a demographic to which very little conceived of by the adult mind actually appeals.
Not much about my 7th grade home ec experience really stands out, with the exception of career day. Somewhere between discussing the delicate preparation of quick breads (don't over-stir), and perfecting the finer points of button-sewing (still cannot sew buttons), Mrs. Schermerhorn hauled out several outdated career guides that listed statistical information on a whole host of potential life paths.
Our assignment: Choose a career path and list all applicable and significant information. Much to Mrs. Schermerhorn's delight, teacher, lawyer, doctor and construction worker cropped up as the obvious paths to success among the middle school population of Boiceville.
In order for you to fully appreciate my participation in this activity, we'll have to rewind about four years. This is when I joined (at the very young age of eight) a mystery book of the month club--one in which members paid a monthly fee and received three new books every month. A venture done with my own hard-earned money, I might add.
"An eight year old child!" you're thinking to yourself. "Using her own savings to purchase novels written on an adult reading level! Fantastic!"
Right. I'm sure my parents, along with every employee at my elementary school, and likely the entire National Council of Teachers of English had a collective, several-year-long educational hard-on as a result of my extreme initiative and zeal when it came to reading.
What they didn't know: these books featured a whole host of adult characters, all of them female, all of them private investigators who, in addition to solving violent crimes, also toted handguns, had adulterous affairs, overused words like "motherfucker," and described their sex lives in much more detail than should probably be digested by an 8-year-old. Not exactly Nancy Drew.
As a result of my book-purchasing initiative, my friends and I routinely spent our recess time on the jungle gym, seeking out the most titillating material in whatever new book I had brought to school.
"A sentence about her nipple!" my friend Amy would yell.
"I marked the sex scene on page 53," I might reply, after Amy had finished reading the nipple line to a group of wide-eyed third-graders.
So naturally, while my classmates idealized Harriet the Spy, Junie B. Jones, members of the Babysitter's Club, and the like, I wanted, more than anything else in my eight-year-old heart, to drink whiskey, outsmart everybody in my midst with my superior deductive reasoning skills, and confront violent criminals with a Smith and Wesson. Perhaps this is why I desperately asked my father if I could please, please, please have my own taser gun. But I digress.
These ambitions posed a problem on home ec career day. I searched intently through several career guides, before raising my hand.
"Umm, Mrs. Schermerhorn, my career isn't listed in here," I said.
"Well," she replied, "what job are you looking for?"
"Private investigator, I responded earnestly, my career guides all strewn in front of me and open to various unacceptable substitutes: police officer, government agent etc... I was certain I was overlooking something. Why would a career guide leave out such an obviously desirable occupation?
The enthusiastic look fell from Mrs. Schermerhorn's face, replaced by one of confusion.
"Um..." she sputtered, clearly choosing her words carefully. "I don't...think....that one is...listed."
She was obviously walking a delicate tightrope; she did not want to entirely crush my long-standing career dreams, but at the same time, she thought those dreams were a bit on the delusional side, and hoped to push me in a more realistic direction, at least in her eyes.
"Why don't you look at this entry, for "Police Officer!" she chirped, the enthusiasm back.
Clearly she just didn't get it. Police officers did not stylishly outsmart their opponents using rogue-like tactics. Police officers did not slug down whiskey during clandestine meetings with prominent city politicos. Police officers did not engage in dramatic verbal spats that prominently featured ball-sy curse words.
Jump ahead about 11 years. Much to Mrs. Schermorhorn's either delight or chagrin, I'm not, currently, too far off the mark of my initial childhood career vision. As a result of my current employ, I drink heavily. I sprinkle verbal epithets, such as "fucking fuck" liberally throughout my day, though admittedly mostly under my breath. Mostly. And, though it would be highly illegal for me to carry a handgun, I bet my whole paycheck that a prominently displayed Smith and Wesson would significantly improve both my job performance and my overall mental health.
I teach middle schoolers.
