So today I had to go visit pre-service teachers in their schools and chat to them and their classroom teachers. All was going swimmingly until a middle aged integration aide decided to come and have a chat to me. She was very confident with herself and I thought 'good for you', but couldn't quite work out why she appeared to be speaking to me as if I was very young and very in need of her guidance....Then she asked me a question I haven't been asked in quite some time....'So what year of your course are you in? 3rd or 4th?'
Oh darling, I'm sorry, but there is no way to break this to you easily.Whichever way I choose I fear you are likely to be mortified.
I pointed at my badge which said, 'Dr...' and said quietly, 'I'm a lecturer, not a student'.
Deathly, awkward silence ensued. Finally she squeaked out 'I think that student needs my help' as she scurried across the other side of the classroom and buried her face in a book.
Still it was marginally less awkward than the early days of my teaching career when I looked like a teenager in a tracksuit and a parent came up on camp and asked me in a oh-so parental tone if I was enjoying camp and making new friends, and I had to politely inform her that I was a teacher not a student.
So clearly I have something that suggests the elixir of youth as I rapidly approach middle age....I'm thinking it could be the spring in my step, my ponytail, my total lack of any appearance of responsibility or maturity - I'm not sure these things are all positives....
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Phyllis Diller and me
So Phyllis Diller is widely credited with saying "My photos do me an injustice, they look just like me". On this point, I am with good old phyl all the way, for indeed my photos do look just like me and this is one of life's great tragedies. Anyone who knows me relatively well knows my distaste for photos. As soon as a camera is encased in someone's hands I turn into a raving lunatic who is suddenly unable to control my limbs, my facial expressions and my mouth. Standing still for a photo proves to be a physical feat more challenging than scaling Everest. Just at the moment that the shutter clicks I will no doubt be blinking, gesticulating wildly or talking so that my mouth is permanently captured wide open and cavernous looking. In photos, I range from looking psychotic, horrified, intellectually challenged, criminally insane or a combination of all those.
The end result of all of this is that I do my very best to avoid photos of me, and if possible I try to only ever be photographed when I don't know I'm being photographed as there is then a chance I might look slightly normal. I have been known to stick photos of celebrities on my id cards in an attempt to hide my own face - and yep my boss couldn't work out why Cameron Diaz was staring back at him one day when I inadvertently sat my card on his desk. So all of this didn't bode well for last Tuesday when I had to go into work to get a photo done. I'd been nominated for a national award for tertiary educators and had to include a photo of myself. I went through my pics on the laptop and selected a pic that didn't make me look horrendous, snipped it, saved it and sent it off. The message came through saying 'your pic is not appropriate- get one taken on Tuesday morning' - I couldn't work out why it wasn't appropriate - I hadn't sent in the one of me trying to eat a giant plastic icecream on the streets of Ireland so what could be wrong with it? I headed off to the library where I presumed I was having my photo taken in the same spot where students get their head shot for their student cards - just like getting my licence pic I was going to be out of there in no time and looking no doubt like I'd been recently released from prison, rather than someone you want to give 10 grand in prize money to. Nonetheless, I wasn't feeling stressed and sauntered confidently into the library. My fear started when they directed me down the stairs to the media studio. As I descended the dimly lit staircase my unease grew and I peered through the media studio door and tried in vain to get in through the locked door - maybe I would be saved after all?
Back up stairs I trudged, only to be told that Matt * (name has been changed to protect the innocent) my photographer must be having coffee and I should go find him in the caf. I politely pointed out that I had no idea who Matt was and unless I was to wander up to random men asking if they'd like to take me downstairs to the media studio for some photo action, I had little chance of finding him. Soon enough Matt appeared clutching his coffee and I was saved from having to approach strangers and asking them to take my photo. Matt opened the door and switched on the lights and I nearly vomited. I had never been in the media studio before and now I know why. It was like a pixie photo booth on steroids. Backdrops, giant lighting, a seemingly innocuous looking camera perched on a tripod. Now I understand why little kids scream at those pixie booths -I was tempted to let fly too. Instead I reverted to my normal photo behaviour - I developed verbal diarrhea and began to flail my limbs about like I was Michael Flatley and doing a rendition of lord of the dance. Clearly I was freaking Matt out too as he asked me what faculty I worked for, obviously he thought I should have been researched for some sort of disorder rather than someone in line for a national citation.
Soon the horror began and the camera clicked and whirred interminably. How many pics do they need for this thing? Matt asked if I was after anything particular- ah no buddy, I'm not putting together a modelling portfolio here, just trying to find a photo that looks vaguely like me. So I told him I didn't want to look a) retarded or b) like a raving lunatic -and after he looked through the shots he'd taken he said 'hmm let's just take a few more'. Great. Fantastic. Real ego boosting day today is turning out to be. After a few more million photos, a lot of staring at them and going 'hmmm', Matt finally announced 'Yep I think I've got a good shot in there, yep I reckon there's a good one'.
I'm still not sure if he was trying to convince himself or me.
The end result of all of this is that I do my very best to avoid photos of me, and if possible I try to only ever be photographed when I don't know I'm being photographed as there is then a chance I might look slightly normal. I have been known to stick photos of celebrities on my id cards in an attempt to hide my own face - and yep my boss couldn't work out why Cameron Diaz was staring back at him one day when I inadvertently sat my card on his desk. So all of this didn't bode well for last Tuesday when I had to go into work to get a photo done. I'd been nominated for a national award for tertiary educators and had to include a photo of myself. I went through my pics on the laptop and selected a pic that didn't make me look horrendous, snipped it, saved it and sent it off. The message came through saying 'your pic is not appropriate- get one taken on Tuesday morning' - I couldn't work out why it wasn't appropriate - I hadn't sent in the one of me trying to eat a giant plastic icecream on the streets of Ireland so what could be wrong with it? I headed off to the library where I presumed I was having my photo taken in the same spot where students get their head shot for their student cards - just like getting my licence pic I was going to be out of there in no time and looking no doubt like I'd been recently released from prison, rather than someone you want to give 10 grand in prize money to. Nonetheless, I wasn't feeling stressed and sauntered confidently into the library. My fear started when they directed me down the stairs to the media studio. As I descended the dimly lit staircase my unease grew and I peered through the media studio door and tried in vain to get in through the locked door - maybe I would be saved after all?
Back up stairs I trudged, only to be told that Matt * (name has been changed to protect the innocent) my photographer must be having coffee and I should go find him in the caf. I politely pointed out that I had no idea who Matt was and unless I was to wander up to random men asking if they'd like to take me downstairs to the media studio for some photo action, I had little chance of finding him. Soon enough Matt appeared clutching his coffee and I was saved from having to approach strangers and asking them to take my photo. Matt opened the door and switched on the lights and I nearly vomited. I had never been in the media studio before and now I know why. It was like a pixie photo booth on steroids. Backdrops, giant lighting, a seemingly innocuous looking camera perched on a tripod. Now I understand why little kids scream at those pixie booths -I was tempted to let fly too. Instead I reverted to my normal photo behaviour - I developed verbal diarrhea and began to flail my limbs about like I was Michael Flatley and doing a rendition of lord of the dance. Clearly I was freaking Matt out too as he asked me what faculty I worked for, obviously he thought I should have been researched for some sort of disorder rather than someone in line for a national citation.
Soon the horror began and the camera clicked and whirred interminably. How many pics do they need for this thing? Matt asked if I was after anything particular- ah no buddy, I'm not putting together a modelling portfolio here, just trying to find a photo that looks vaguely like me. So I told him I didn't want to look a) retarded or b) like a raving lunatic -and after he looked through the shots he'd taken he said 'hmm let's just take a few more'. Great. Fantastic. Real ego boosting day today is turning out to be. After a few more million photos, a lot of staring at them and going 'hmmm', Matt finally announced 'Yep I think I've got a good shot in there, yep I reckon there's a good one'.
I'm still not sure if he was trying to convince himself or me.
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