Project Stress-away

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If you have a child who attends school, then I know you sent a perfectly lovely token of your appreciation to his teacher today to thank her* for her hours of committed service to your child. But if you forgot that today was Teacher Appreciation Day, don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Teachers are over-paid and under-worked as it is. Appreciation would only confuse us.

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For some reason which I can’t quite put my finger on, my room parents apparently really appreciate me. They couldn’t have given me a more perfect gift if I accessed their ATM cards and did the shopping myself.

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You might be wondering what this ideal gift is. What is this one thing that will guarantee ultimate happiness for the person who lovingly devotes her life to her students? Rather than tell you that, let me instead tell you what I didn't get. If you’ve ever given one of these sorry gifts (and fess up . . . you know you have), just know that these are the teacher equivalent of a ten percent tip:

• a candle
• a coffee mug
• a gift set of crappy lotion and body spray
• an inspirational wall hanging
• a tee shirt that says, “Teaching Is a Work of Heart”
• a Knowledge Tree gift card
• anything apple
• anything even remotely related to teaching, teachers, school, or kids

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What does that leave? Well, for starters, alcohol. There’s a perfectly fabulous gift industry based entirely on alcohol that would be totally appreciated by every teacher I know. Because, really, who needs it more? Why don’t you people get that? Give your kid’s teacher a bottle of Bailey’s. You have it here in writing: your kid will instantly be promoted to Teacher’s Pet.

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But that’s not what I got. If you can believe it, my gift is even better. Which can only mean . . . massahhhhhhhhge. I can hardly type the word without my fingers going all spaghetti on me. I’m not a girl for luxury, at least not the kind I have to fund. I simply do not have an off switch for the dollar counter. (That minute was a dollar. That minute was a dollar. Damn, there goes another dollar.) But if you’re treating? Then, oh honey, let the oil flow. Which is exactly why this gift is so stinking perfect. They could have given me the exact dollar amount of the massage in cash and I would have converted it to groceries, or a new muffler, or renewing my expired teaching license. You know, something luxurious like that.

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But now, against my will, I have a date with Mr. Benny Briggs, massage therapist/genius/god. You’ve probably heard of Benny’s wife, Korto Momolu. She’s gotten a lot of the spotlight lately. And, okay, she’s undeniably fabulous. But Benny? He’s the true genius of the family. And soon enough, I’ll have the melted muscles to prove it.

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*I started out trying to be all PC and using his/her and s/he, but it just looked like everybody was a hermaphrodite after a while. You’re smart enough to fill in your own pronoun, right?

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