I’m told there’s a list. I’m not on it yet.
Normally, this wouldn’t make me worry. I’m not a big fan of lists because they remind me of those stupid MySpace bulletin surveys. The romantic-era composer is cool, though.
Thing is, this list is the list for new hires at summer school. Despite my amateurish lobbying, I’ve heard that I’ll be at the top of this list, mostly thanks to the expert lobbying of my master teachers.
There’s a catch, of course. I’m only at the top of the list if the guy in charge gets my application. He hasn’t, yet. The plot thickens.
I knew I shouldn’t have trusted intradistrict mail. I sent my application via intradistrict mail to human resources because there’s some arcane, bureaucratic process my application goes through before I’m even officially approved for the list. On that, I think I’m good. I’ve avoided even the accusation of all the wrong stupidities.
If I get the job, though, I won’t be teaching history at summer school, despite that that’s the subject I’ve been training in. Think freshman English, thanks to my journalism degree. Even better, it’s to kids who didn’t pass it the first time. Summer school, right?
The job is by no means a sure thing, though. There’s still summer camp as an option, though I still don’t have a contract there, either.
Nonetheless, I’m trying out for the videographer position. If nothing else, it should be my fallback.
Unfortunately for a fallback, this is by no means a sure thing, either. It’s a family company, and the manager who is actually part of the family lately seems to be freezing me out — worrisome.
With everything up in the air and nothing for certain on this late month of March, I worry. I worry even though I know it’s an unhealthy habit. After all, in the words of a Chicago Tribune columnist later quoted by Baz Luhrmann:
Don’t worry about the future. Or, worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra problem by chewing bubblegum. The real troubles in life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday.
Fortunately, today is Saturday. This comforts me.
Moral of the story? Breathing: the best cure for hyperventilation.