Returning to classroom a good thing — really

I'm going back to school today. No, not as in taking classes to become, say, a doctor, but as in teaching classes so that I can afford to go to the doctor. I'm very excited to return to the classroom, though, especially to teaching high school students, because I am totally out of the loop on all the cool stuff.

I mean, I used to know the lingo in middle school, the right clothes, the right music, who was going with whom, everything. Oh, yeah, I was bad ... I mean sweet ... I mean, I knew what was lame ... or bogus ... or phat ... or ... see what I mean?

There were several things that precipitated my imminent return to the classroom, things that seem to be telling me that Someone Up There thinks it's a good idea. First of all, contrary to popular belief -- well, contrary to a belief that was popular with me -- writing newspaper columns does not mean instant fame followed by incredible wealth.

Sure, we all look at Dave Barry and think, well, at least he has lots of money to fund the therapy he so clearly needs, he writes for the Miami Herald, after all! However -- and not that the Miami Herald has anything over the Chapel Hill Herald (this is obvious from the fact that they both have "Herald" in their name) -- his subsequent syndication to a skillion more newspapers nationwide apparently provided a few more readers.

On top of that, he is writing and publishing books. Naturally, a skillion newspaper readers helps, but it was the books that brought the fame and fortune. Which brings me to my second "sign" from above: I am tired of getting rejected by book publishers. I've heard all the arguments: "Everybody gets rejected ... why, Albert Einstein's Theory of Relativity was probably rejected by all the biggest Theory publishers before he made it, you just gotta keep on plugging, and blah-de-blah blah."

And, I thought I had the right frame of mind to handle rejections. I thought I had infinitely thicker skin. Turns out I'm a weepy, whiny weenie ... that's alliteration ... don't tell me I can't write! Anyway, I've tried all of those rejection speeches on the electric company at bill-paying time, and they didn't, shall we say, light up over it. (And that, my dear, is called a "pun." I am a smokin' writer!)

The third sign came when I was building a house. Well, not me literally, not that I couldn't, but what I meant was that I hired someone to build me a house. Having put a deposit on some land back when I had plans to be rich and famous, it was eventually time to build or bail, so I was committed -- or should have been. It was exciting, but again, the contractor wasn't keen on accepting that whole Albert Einstein explanation as payment, either.

So, I have to get back to earning the enormous salary one makes as a teacher. (Did you hear that? That was the sound of 5,000 teachers reading the morning paper and simultaneously spewing coffee down their fronts.)

And, there was one last sign: A friend who teaches at East Chapel Hill High School had a baby. Not that I had anything to do with that, but it does kill two birds with one childbirth: My friend gets a gorgeous, perfect little baby girl -- Hi, Sadie! Who's a wittle bootiful gurl? Who's a wittle kootchie-koo? (ahem) -- I get the long-term, full-time hours I need. And we both could have someone to talk to at 2 a.m., while she's feeding the baby and I'm grading English papers. To put it another way: There may be two of us "having a bottle," if you know what I'm saying.

You know I'm only kidding, folks. Teachers never drink. (And, there's that sound again!) Honestly, I can't wait to get back in there with "our" kids. When I left teaching, I felt almost as much guilt as if I were leaving my own children -- have I mentioned that I'm Italian and Catholic? -- for an extra-long night out on the town, and now I'm hurrying home to see if the baby sitter has gotten into the liquor cabinet and then texted all night while the house burned down.

Don't get me wrong, the teachers in this district are exactly who I'd want to leave "my children" with while I go out on the town, and most of them don't even know how to text. But still, just like when you ask the sitter to read "Goodnight, Moon" to your baby at bedtime, it's not the same as doing it yourself.

And, after 23 years, I still know how to have fun in the classroom, and that's what I intend to do. Just one word of warning: Kids, I'm flunking anyone who wears a Duke shirt!

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at vwentz@mindspring.com.