I am now a month in to the phase I have dubbed "The Aftermath." Thus far, The Aftermath involves me cataloging various nuisance problems around my apartment and blaming them on You Know Who. Among the atrocities: a horridly filthy shower curtain, a broken DVD player, brown candle wax dried on my moderately expensive mirror on the mantle, dirty coffee grinder, a large piece of unwrapped fish lying open in the freezer, a can of Pam in the refrigerator, what appears to be dog snot on my patio doors, and three flowerpots on a shelf in my storage closet with withered brown plant stalks intact.
Frankly, it's going to be a shame when enough time has passed that I can no longer reasonably blame everything on her. I have a feeling the current dust crop is as much my fault as hers. And I haven't gotten around to cleaning the dog snot; do I just enjoy that little flash of righteous indignation, the evidence that she's the bad guy?
I keep getting the same two questions at school: "How was France?" "Are you glad to be back?" I usually opt for "interesting" and "yes," because the actual answers are too complicated to get in to. When pressed for a longer response, my standard answer is that I don't regret my decision to come home, I just regret that it was necessary.
Are there things I miss? Absolutely. Here are a few:
I miss TS1. Sometimes you get a group that's just flat-out special, and TS1 was mine. I don't know that I'll never again have such an outstanding combination of intelligence and personality in one room.
I miss thinking about Cheez-Its in the shower:
I miss the beaver on my fridge:
I miss speaking French every day. (By this I mean Real French, as opposed to Classroom French. In class I'm pretty much talking myself, except for when I track down a beleaguered French V graduate who must humor me by enduring my desperate chatter.) Even when I speak French poorly, I love it.
I miss walking. I know, you're calling foul, right? "Please, that girl was always complaining about not having a car," you're thinking, and you're right. I hated the bus. I hated the necessity of walking; as in, it would be nice to take a car when it was raining, to run out for milk or toilet paper, or when I was late for school. But I'd like to have the option of walking to and from school when it suits me. I've got a logjam of "Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me!" podcasts since the iPod doesn't get its usual two-hour workout.
But at the same time, I'm so happy to be home. Today, for example, Shells called and asked if I wanted to meet her for a drink. We sat in the restaurant for two hours lingering over drinks, fried cheese, and a massive venting session. And it struck me that I never got to do this kind of thing in Le Mans, and that my life was duller for it.
With my colleagues, it's been highly entertaining to see whose side people are on. I never asked them to take sides, mind you, but there are a number of folks who worked with Miss Cake who no longer speak to me. There are also those who glare at me and ask pointed questions like, "So, did she want to leave? Were you the one who quit?" A semester in France did great things for my diplomatic ability. I've gotten good at taking the high road.
My classes are great; the students are sweethearts and I enjoy feeling competent again. I can teach French. I'm good at it. The kids like me. We work together towards a common goal, and we all feel positive about it. Several told me they were planning to drop French until they heard I was coming back. I hate that they felt this way about it, but it's nice to have validation that yes, I really did make the right choice.
Of course, I'm already plotting my return to France...
