After years of me begging a colleague to also teach AP English, he finally said yes; by which I mean our principal asked him once and he agreed. This week, we met a few times to collaborate on projects and discuss goals for next year. My excitement about working with another teacher on AP for the first time in seven years kindled an unexpected jealousy in my mate.
Odie is not a jealous man. He is either realistic about the chances of a 42-year-old woman with two small children trading up in Los Angeles, or he just trusts me. Even if the latter were untrue, he could take great comfort in the former.
There must have been something in my tone when I declared it “amazing” to “finally have a partner in AP English.” Something a bit too rapturous in my excitement tripped Odie’s insecurity sensors. He said something about Alexie Vera being “a handsome man” and muttered something about a forced-to-go-gay scenario and where Alexie would end up in the rankings (very high, as it turns out – though I have serious doubts since I see them both as power bottoms). I was making dinner for the kids and only half listening, so I said something like, “Sure, I guess so.”
Okay, what I actually said was, “No shit.”
That was apparently the wrong thing to say.
And yet, oh, so right.
Since Wednesday, when Mr. Vera and I met for an hour to discuss an upcoming project, Odie has been peppering his conversation with such gems as, “I know I’m no Senor Perfecto, but can you grab me a Dr. Pepper while you’re up?” and turned “Collaborating with Mr. Vera” into code for adulterous shenanigans.
It led us to a philosophical conversation about the role of jealousy in our marriage. He’s never expressed an iota of jealousy toward me, not a single drop – something that has hurt my feelings just a little bit in the past. What is that about? I have all the proof in the world that Odie loves me. He married me, had two children with me, treats me lovingly, does laundry, puts up with my bullshit. He tells me he loves me every day. He takes point with the girls since I have so much more take-home work than he. He grab-asses me all over the house all the time. I have insecurities, though. Some are the same ones I’ve always had, others are new. I have a birthday coming up, and with every passing year I feel more invisible as I disappear into the high waistband of my Mom Jeans.
When Odie says, “I trust you,” I don’t know if he means “I trust you,” or “I trust you are undesirable to others.”
On the flip side, my jealousy makes him angry. It says “I don’t trust you,” which means “You are a liar, a cheater, and a scumbag.” He claims to have a “former life” in which he was all three, and he gets self-esteem and fulfillment from the fact that he has been a devoted and faithful partner to me. I can’t even playfully tell him that I’m coming home early, so tell his girlfriend to leave.
“I know you’d never have a girlfriend over while I’m at work, honey,” I assure him. He wouldn’t either. Our house is a disaster.
Today I complimented him on his new haircut.
“I know I’m no Mr. Vera,” he smirked, “but I’m not bad-looking for my age.”
“This is just too fun,” I said. And it is. Immature and petty it may be, yet I relish Odie thinking of my head being turned by another man. It’s novel since he’s never ever ever considered it before. (But has he ever considered it before? He has not.) My inner Oscar-clutching-Sally-Field crying “You like me! You really like me!” is gratified to the roots of her eighties perm.
No doubt someone will snidely say it’s a sign of his own wandering eye and not admiration for me that makes him project insecurity. Thanks a lot, you killjoy bastard. I know that my husband looks at other women. I’m fine with it. Monogamy is a fucking tragedy, but we make it work because the benefits outweigh the sacrifices. We talked about how I would much rather have a husband who doesn’t fear losing me than a possessive, accusatory, suspicious one. Jealousy isn’t a sign of love. It’s a sign that your wife is still hot.
The Friendly Pedant by Mrs. Odie 
Pretty Funny
Louis C.K. told David Letterman that in a sold-out comedy show of 15,000 laughing audience members, what he sees are the 1,000 people who aren’t impressed. Letterman chuckles knowingly. Anyone in the business of making people laugh can probably relate. I notice that Louis C.K. is not good-looking, but his fame and comic genius make him appealing. I have no doubt he dates women 20 years younger who would be considered “out of his league.”
I’m a teacher not a comedian, but as Neil Postman pointed out in his brilliant book Amusing Ourselves to Death, all discourse is entertainment now. I’ve even had commenters here tell me that if I made education “fun” I’d have an easier time with students. Even the president needs to crack jokes to keep the nation’s attention during important speeches.
Louis C.K.’s comments made me think of high school and how people develop their popularity. The genetically-blessed don’t have to do anything but be. Everyone else has to do something. I’ve seen an awkward boy on the autism spectrum with echolalia be taken in by a group of thugs who find him entertaining. At first, we teachers tried to “rescue” him, only to discover that somewhere in those thug hearts where there exists no trace of empathy or respect for teachers and learning, was a protective instinct to keep this kid safe from other bullies. He became a sort of bully mascot.
The chubby boy studies John Belushi, John Candy, and Chris Farley and becomes a comedian whose genetic disadvantage is his comedy brilliance. He’s able to attract a cute cheerleader girlfriend. Not an A-lister, to be sure, but one of the peripherally popular girls. Enough to get him invited to the right parties because he makes everybody laugh.
The intellectual elite are in a group by themselves. They are going places. They will run the world. All of those jerks who call them four-eyes, nerds, suck-ups, and losers are going to be begging them for jobs. These kids are going to top universities. They may long for the kind of popularity that we all long for, but they’ll be fine.
No matter when you go to high school, nothing much changes except the technology. Kids submit essays as Google Docs now and read textbooks on tablets. We teachers text our students homework reminders and run literature discussions via blog. The hunt for identity that characterizes adolescence is impervious to technological advances.
I was promiscuous in high school. It isn’t generally accepted for women to admit that, much less to brag about it. The dance of adolescence is supposed to involve boys pushing girls for sex and girls being the gatekeepers. “Nice” girls and “good” girls don’t “give it up.” For all that adults may think high school kids have lost all morality and are basically humping in the stairwells, that dynamic still exists. Longterm couples are probably having sex (we all knew that couple who disappeared together during every social event, or if you were as unlucky as my group, didn’t feel the need to seek privacy). Everyone else is navigating the rules: the explicit and the implicit ones.
Pretty girls don’t have to be funny nor do they have to work to attract men. So the stereotype says. If I’m funny, does that mean I’m not pretty? I’m married, so I don’t need to pursue other men, but I can’t help but want them to look at me with desire. I worked to be seductive and amusing. I never possessed the kind of beauty that made it unnecessary. My self-esteem is wrapped up in being funny and pretty. As I approach my 43rd birthday and tote around my adorable daughters, I relate to E.B. White’s narrator in “Once More to the Lake,” who sees his own inevitable decline and death in the person of his replacement: his son.
I feel a combination of pride and sadness watching my beautiful girls grow. One has big, wide-set eyes and silky blonde hair. The other is tall and skinny with thick wavy long hair. If all goes well, they are both poised to fulfill cultural ideals of attractiveness.
But you bet your ass I’m teaching them how to be funny.
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