I know my life seems incredibly glam. Part time substitute teacher of usually little, teensy people who sometime's take their pants off by day, pastor's wife by...also day. It's the kind of life with a lot of fanfare and paparazzi. Tabloids write about me and gossip columns talk about my height and weight. It's a really enviable life. I'm working on my memoir now.
But, in the event that you think I'm some untouchable celebrity who never has to use the restroom and wakes up airbrushed (I know I certainly give off such a vibe), let me put your ridiculous perceptions to rest. You see, I'm in the middle of a six week stint with kindergartners. Those little germ buckets have already given me strep and now, just a week after finishing the antibiotic for that, I've got the beginnings of what is sure to be an epic cold.
My colds always start with obnoxious nasal drip down the back of my throat that prevents adequate sleep for no less than three nights. I used to try to just swallow the garbage down while I attempted sleep but this proved useless. So then I started getting up every two minutes to loudly hack up whatever crap I could and then spit it, teenage boy style, into the sink. Finally, I got the attractive idea to keep a cup next to my bed. I'd just reach for the cup every time I needed to dispense of my thick, phlegm infused saliva. In the morning, I wash the cup out and, hopefully, my sleep the night before was slightly less interrupted. It's worked well and I'm still married.
But only because he said, "'Til death do us part." He forgot to add in the clause that keeping a spit cup next to one's head would also be grounds for divorce.
So, last night, I propped myself up on THREE pillows and tried to settle in for the night. Next to me, a child's green Veggie Tales cup waited for what was sure to be a wild night. A half hour later, it had collected quite a volume of nasal drip because honestly, I'm awfully attractive and not at all disgusting. I was exhausted and groggy. I hacked up an unhealthy amount of phlegm and then set the cup back on my night stand.
Or did I?
Suddenly, I heard a plop.
I quickly switched on my lamp. There stood my cup, upside down, inside my purse, which I happen to keep right in front of my nightstand. I picked up the cup and sighed loudly when I surveyed it's emptiness. I walked briskly to the bathroom and flipped on the light. I pulled items from my purse.
Checkbook. Covered in a long string of (thankfully) clear phlegm.
Glasses case. Covered.
No less than six pens. All slimed.
And a pool of spit was collected at the bottom.
"Uggggg!" I moaned. This never would have happened if I was using my theatre degree for actual theatre instead of for pretending that I'm a kindergarten teacher. Because if I wasn't pretending to be a kindergarten teacher, I wouldn't be subjected to these super germs being carried around on the grubby hands of (albeit adorable) little people.
Ten minutes later I'd managed to clean out my purse and wash my items free of fluid. It was a disgusting job but someone had to do it. (And, really, who on earth else would have washed MY spit out of MY purse?)
So, you see, being a pastor's wife and substitute teacher is not all the fame and fortune and paparazzi and glamour that it looks like on the outside. Sometimes, it's an upside down phlegm cup in a purse.