A couple of weeks ago, I found myself telling my students how rare something was:
“In my [pause while I did the math] 25 years of teaching, I have never read an essay that . . .”
I stopped and wrote myself a note: “Celebrate.”
My celebrations are usually low key. Birthdays are quiet dinners with friends and family and small celebrations with my beloved book group. I’ve skipped all my graduations. Four of my five books have come out without a big party. If some friends hadn’t thrown me something for my PhD, there wouldn’t have been a real Party (with a capital P) for just me in my adult life.
In the summer of 1998, I taught for the first time. I realized what I was supposed to be doing: teaching.
Thus, on Thursday, after I turn in my grades for classes 326, 327, and 328, I will see colleagues and former students and raise a drink to a quarter century of a job I love.
