Amys Are Sorry Summer Is Over
Although windows have opened to crisp morning air, educator Amys rue semesters’ beginning from Rochester to Memphis. Reticent freshmen stare back at them panic-stricken by syllabi that preempt the usual high school teacher trickery, undercut ace- in-the-hole-grandmother-died alibi, hold them responsible in ways they haven’t been held in some time.  Even tax-paying, civic-duty-doing Amys miss lounging lakeside unbounded by committee meetings or wedge booties. Miss watermelon daiquiri lunches. Miss Ellen and Amy Schumer marathon-watch-a-thons.  Miss squandering hours allowing complete decompression only to compress again in one weekend lost to jammed copiers. Pity your implacable Amys on faculty, administrators, provosts. Turn in your leather recliners, peek behind 27-inch monitors, cup an ear to the fading strains of tenure’s Composition-paper-muffled glory and wish upon the falling stars of their astronomically lower salaries that they do not organize a grade-in around your Berber-carpeted conference table for those five additional students you slipped in to each section. Because, sorry as they are to be squeezed by cut budgets, Amys grew wise to a little something this vacation. They are only ever a three-hour drive from a rustic cabin out of range by cell phone or internet better than Vegas at apologizing for nothing.
