Sparkling for my King

For the first time all week, my newly repaired motorbike allowed me to return to being the independent woman I always prided myself on being.  I could finally drive myself to school, and a sly smile of confidence spread across my face as the engine roared to life.  Sheets upon sheets of rain had finally broken the dry spell of hot season.  Our parched and discontented souls rejoiced and then complained when the excess of this humid luxury caused a flood that spilled forth into the neighborhood streets of Chiang Mai.  But, rain or shine, I was going to drive to school myself, because I finally could.  Pride comes before a fall.  Or, in this case, a swim. Other than the normal fight for survival from the seat of a motorbike in morning traffic in Thailand, all was well until I curved around the round-a-bout to see a friend with a somber face and orange vest holding up his arms in a cross.  I sent a weak grin his direction and pulled off my su...

It’s a Thursday afternoon after school and I’m sitting here trying to type out this letter from the soul at the same time as I precariously balance an ice cream cone between my typing fingers, because it’s just been that kind of day.  It’s a day that should have been a Friday.  In fact, I thought it was for most of the day.  The revelation that it was only Thursday led to this melting moment of chocolate disaster on my desk.   On the way back from “Operation Ice Cream”, a fellow teacher called me out on “trudging”.  One step in front of the other with head down low.   Guilty.  It wasn’t a bad day altogether, put the sprinkles of little seedy lies has left a bad taste in my mouth and deep ache in my gut.   It started last night at an end-of the-year team dinner where I received a nomination for the “Hitler” Award.  I laughed it off, knowing that it almost certainly awarded in jest, then let it suck the life right out of me while tryi...