I have started a new morning ritual. Before I drink my coffee, before I check the weather, and certainly before I steel myself to enter the petri dish of hormones known as a middle school hallway, I look at a number. Today, that number is 821. That is exactly how many days stand between me and retirement. It sounds like a huge number, I know. But even when you measure time in 6th-grade class periods—which operate on a strange, agonizingly slow relativity scale—821 days feels like a manageable prison sentence. I am currently serving my time on the front lines of puberty, and let me tell you, the troops are restless, highly emotional, and smell vaguely of cheap body spray. What the students think they look like The core issue, and the source of my bone-deep exhaustion, is biological. I spend my days trying to inject knowledge into brains whose prefrontal cortices are currently marked "Under Construction." As any neurologist (or parent of a twelve-year-old) knows, this is the pa...
If there is such a thing as a textbook cold, I ran through the pages last week and still feel crummy. At first, I was hopeful. The small twinge of sore throat that pinched on day one quickly slidesteped to make way for unique water features that took over my nose. For twelve hours, I felt like a pop-up water park—flowing, spraying, and sneezing jet streams into reams of tissues. When all that excitement died down, I naively thought I was better. I'll skip the details on the unproductive cough that finally blossomed. Viruses are stealthy. And, I can't say I'm sick anymore, but my usual pep has disappeared, and I'm in a funk. It’s like a fog has slipped in through the windows, and I'm stuck in a state of torpor; a slow-motion pace that's forced me to stop and look around. I see rolls of wrapping paper gossiping in a corner. Stacks of folded magazines loiter on the couch with pillows. I'm wondering how it is that scotch tape shares shelf space with the box of...