07.23.2003 - 12:15 p.m.

My camp kids call me by my last name. They call me Miz, and once in a while they slip up and call me Mrs.

It�s the first time in my life I�ve had to answer to that. It�s right up there with that first time somebody said �excuse me, ma�am� to get by me at the video store.

My camp kids call me by my last name. They do this because I am old. Inconceivably old, like dirt, or like that last, unmatched sock at the bottom of the hamper. I mean, come on, twenty-four. I must be near senile.

And I am saying the same things my teachers said when I was twelve and they were eleventy-four. Please don�t speak when I am talking. I need your attention now. If you can�t settle down I�ll have to take the computer away.

We�re on lunch break now, so in an effort to balance out this momentous occasion, I�ve taken my shoes off and propped my feet up next to the computer. Maybe I�ll teach the next class barefoot, without asking them for their attention while I talk. Maybe I�ll pick up some gum at the campus center so I can snap it for the rest of the day.

Take that oh foul, insidious maturity.

-stonebridge

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