dis·en·gage

transitive verb

: to release from something that engages or involves

intransitive verb

: to release or detach oneself

Tomorrow is the last day of school term, and the last day of my term contract at St Mary’s of the Middle Class Ladies, and once again I am finding myself in the process of disengaging myself from people, place and work. I am getting fairly practiced at it now.

No one has to remind me that I need to hand back my keys and name badge; log off the lap top and hand it to IT; clean out the drawer I may have been spared for my personal belongings by the regular incumbent; return any school resources I may have been given, and turn off the lights as I leave!

Sometimes the disengagement process is easier than at other times. Sometimes, I have never engaged to even need to disengage!  Their fault, not mine, of course! This time I am leaving with more than a pang of regret of if only.  If only the incumbent has enjoyed three months of leave so much that they will seek a tree change, sea change, job change. If only the incumbent was kidnapped by marauding pygmies and taken back to be their leader and so will need to surrender their day job. If only the incumbent will arrive home in a full body cast which they will need to wear for the next 9 years.  If only they would love me more…  Such stuff is what dreams are made of.

So, with two days and only one class to teach, I am already mentally through the process. I have spent the morning surfing the net. Twice I have suggested that we lock the library and head to the beach. I have the attention span of a bubble blower.  I have walked back to be car park to rescue the chocolate melting in my car to share with my co-workers. I have eaten most of it. (Why it was in my car is another blog post)

 I want to hit the road.

Next term I am returning to Fanny and Maude’s, where I taught for a semester last year and was sublimely happy. I have been even happier at St Mary’s as I have taught very few classes and those that I did required no real preparation. I have had no marking to do, or reporting to complete. No deadlines. And the most beautiful thing of all is that THE INCUMBENT is so disliked and self-involved that all I really had to do was smile, be pleasant and only slightly helpful and they have given me accolades. However, I am more than happy to returning to the hallowed halls of those great ladies, Fanny and Maude (the first names of some of the original principals, for those late comers who are now scratching their heads in bewilderment).  I made friends there.

I won’t be teaching a full load. I will not even go into school on a Tuesday. Less work means less pay, but some pay is better than no pay!

In the meantime, I will enjoy a staycation. I am also getting very practiced at staycations! Less work, no money, get the plot?

This staycation will be slightly different as Daughter2 is coming home for a few days to share time with me. This morning she emailed so say that she has booked us in for a facial. I have never had a professional facial. I am more the kind who buys a tube of peel off mask from the Avon lady. She fretted that perhaps she shouldn’t have booked the appointment early in the morning, as our hair might be messy for hitting the town afterwards. I suggested that we go to the movies and sit in the dark with messy hair, glowing skin and a beverage in hand (if we go to the Barracks cinema the beverage can be of the alcoholic kind!). Plan finalised.

Another day we will go to the art gallery to see the Henri Cartier-Bresson: The Man, The Image & The World exhibition. Daughter2 viewed it last year when in New York (as one does!), but is enthusiastic to see it again. We have a day of lying on my bed and watching movies planned as well, which will no doubt involve some form of chocolate too. Life won’t be so bad.

That will all be happening in the second vacation week. Before that, I need to reclaim our house from the refuse tip it has become over the last few week, due to work and family issues (BIL is out of ICU and making a slow, but sturdy recovery).

So, tomorrow I will drive out the gate of St Mary’s for the last time…this year. For who knows what tomorrow, next year, or the year after, will bring. It may bring me back to St Mary’s, it may not. All I ask is that tomorrow takes me somewhere I can be happy, involved and passionate. I really would have it all then.