Mistaken identity

After almost five months in Chauny, I realized that each day of the week has its thing going on:

Mondays are very un-Monday-like. Sleeping in and three short hours of work! Makes Sundays way less stressful (always a despised day for me, but here, I enjoy them). 

Tuesday's latest trend is to buy kebabs with sauce blanche at Kebab King by the train station (where the nice young lady says, Ça va, filles? and hands us lollipops) and watch Pushing Daisies in Ruth's bedroom. Face masks and back massages sometimes happen on Tuesday nights. 

We're all free on Wednesdays: cinnamon oatmeal or eggs for breakfast (too slow for an ordinary weekday; cornflakes are typical) and then maybe a coffee at the cafe down the street. Norman attends weekly Scrabble games with the elderly population in the next town over. This is the day I re-learn American history and try not to watch too many movies. 

Thursdays I rise in darkness, work four hours, and have lunch with my pals and the professors. We have 40-cent coffee or hot chocolate in the teachers' lounge afterward. Then home, where I blast some tunes and clean up the kitchen for Ruth's weekly Spanish hour with one of the professors at school. I adore Thursdays. Thursdays are usually sunnier and warmer than the other days of the week. Thursdays are full of hope for the weekend and hope for life in general. 

Then Friday, Saturday, and Sunday... all different, filled with evening chats and laughter and walks around town and sleeping many hours and afternoon coffees and lesson planning.

Chugging neon Emergen-C. Combined with raw garlic and 10 hours of sleep, you're new again.

I heard this yesterday from one of the English professors; he saw me reading a (French) book in the teachers' lounge: I thought you were a French girl! That's what he said. I'm feeling proud. You agree?

It's subtle, but I think he's right.