Halloween comes but once a year...

Nothing new to report except that I am longing to dress up. I wish it were Halloween again. This time I would be either Shakira or a musketeer. Not that work clothes aren't fun. I rather like having to wear a suit, as it helps me put on my professional facade. But because of that same professional imperative I have to tone down the Shakira fantasies of my daily dress.

When I worked as a"program interpreter" (that's tour guide, for those of you who aren't versed in the lingo) at the Museum of Science and Industry there was a girl, a business student, who said that every morning she had to put on some fairly professional clothes, do her make-up and imagine that she was going to an office somewhere. If she didn't do that it was hard to build up the heart to come to work (where we had to change into costumes anyway). For me, I have to put on the make up and imagine that I am...I don't know what exactly but something terribly glamorous. I don't actually imagine doing any work of any sort, other than maybe entertaining people somehow, but I have this vision of being glamorous and being seeing as glamorous.

Part of why I enjoy the kids lessons is because I can feel that in their eyes I am this adult, this mysterious foreign teacher: this woman. And as unremarkable as that might sound, and adult woman is not something I always feel I am. I remember being 5 in Brazil at a Festa Junina (a Brazilian winter festival where mulled wine is drunk, to protect you from the bitter cold, and kids black out their teeth, to look like country hicks) and there was a performance of some sort by a woman with long, silky black hair. After the performance I got to meet to her, to my amazement, and I remember just being speechless in my awe of her. Somehow at the end of the night I ended up in her lap and, sleepy and happy, I brushed through her hair with my hand. This week at school little Nanoha, who has a wonderful spirit, if not the best ear, and who always looks up at me starry eyed, took a break from running around the room to come up and play with my hair. It's weird to be the adult. I wonder if that woman in Brazil was everything I dreamed she was, or if she was someone who imagined herself a girl, who didn't really know how to be an adult in all its multifaceted glory: bills, relationships, goals, perseverance, discipline. All that crap. I love being seen as something. I hate being watched. Hating being watched is why some of the adult classes stress me out. Are they judging you? Building up a list of complaints? Sometimes they are actually too busy studying English to care, but not as often as would be nice. Entertained is fine. Watching and wondering is not. And I hate dropping anything in a tiny room, crammed with 8 people. FYI: the best way to bend down to the floor when you are surrounded my people who notice changes in your weight, by people who are terribly curious about how you look, is to bend at the knees and have your back to the wall.