One morning you wake up and you’re old. I don’t mean old as in one foot in the grave. I mean old as in your hair has more gray, and your wrinkles are more defined. I mean old as in you’re wondering who that stranger in the mirror is.
Those little hairs of gray are not tame on me; they are wiry, poking out of the mass of blond orange curls atop my head screaming to be noticed. Just like that little old biddy in me screaming to be noticed finds herself complaining and griping and moaning about too much to do, students who don’t care, the lack of balance in her life, the papers to grade, the educational policies we are given, and those who see teaching as just a job.
I don’t let those hairs stand out for too long. I take that wiry gray, and I just pluck it. Maybe that’s how I should be with the little old biddy in me (I’m 43, by the way). Pluck that biddy out. Just pluck it! She’s getting in the way of me becoming the best Maya I can become.