The Sweetest Release

Many people hate their jobs, and many of them don't get ten weeks off work in the Summer.

Unbelievable.

I actually like my job, but I don't miss it. This week is the first in a glorious series of weeks, stretching into the warmest Oregon months, where I'll forget I even had a job. I'll still get paid. My benefits will be intact, as will my retirement. And yet, there'll be a day sometime in mid-July when I'll wake up, go for a run in blinding morning sunlight, come home to read a book in the park, and try really hard to remember what a workday is like.

Oh, I'll do things with all that time. I'll head to Los Angeles, Scotland, Eastern Oregon, and my ten-year class reunion. I'll run at least two races (one a relay, one a 10K). I'll read books. I'll dust off the old guitar, maybe write a poem or two. I'll be busy. It's only been six days so far and I've already finished a Flannery O'Connor novel; gone bouldering in Leavenworth, Washington; gone wine-tasting; bar-be-cued; and set a PR in the mile at the Wilsonville High School track. There's a lot to do. But the point is, the incredible, unbelievable point is, I don't have to do anything.

There's this weird feeling that comes on, between the last day of school and that point in July when I forget I have a job. I feel like I'm getting away with something, like I've slept in too late and missed the first two classes and nobody noticed. I feel guilty, for no reason. "This can't be right," I subconsciously tell myself. But then I think about it, and it is. I really do get all this time off. Somehow, this is legal, and good.

That last Friday was like a dream. The students got out the day before; the custodians were cleaning lockers, one by one. Sunlight burst through the skylights. We spent the morning finishing grades, clearing stacks of late work off our tables and quickly entering scores. Steadily, the papers cleared off our desks and into the recycle bin. We started to clean our rooms, shoving books and handouts into closets. We straightened things. I turned the Led Zeppelin up in my room as the release point approached. Other teachers popped in, smiling, wishing a happy Summer. My grin widened. Soon, I was blaring Nirvana from my computer speakers; it echoed through the pod outside my room. I grabbed the final checklist, visited the librarian, head counselor, school secretary. I was literally skipping. I high-fived a co-worker, turned in the last of the forms, locked my room. I ran outside, into the white, ethereal, Corvallis day.

Christmas morning.

Freedom.