If I count all the years I have spent working since I graduated from college in 2007, they would sum up to roughly two years and a half. Of this, I spent two years teaching. The other six months was spent either in a job I did not love or whining about that job I never learned to love. Negligible, if I compare this to my elementary school teachers in the provice whose service records stated 25, 31, 37 years spent teaching (this I learned after they unsuspiciously asked me, then a naive-looking grade three pupil, to photocopy their service records at the principal’s office. You may be asking why it’s in the principal’s office. During that time when the photocopying machine made it premier in our small barrio anything precious, as was just proper, was stored, inventoried, and displayed in the principal’s office, so dead frogs preserved in a clear bottles of mayonnaise, stuffed giant tortoise caught in a creek beside the school, outstanding school projects submitted by students whose mothers had to pay a national artist a fortune to paint their son’s ‘Go, Glow, and Grow’ charts, ‘modern’ equipment like a stereo the size of a coffin set vertically, a black-and-white TV, a turntable, and the Minolta photocopier popular during the 90s find their way in his mildewy office. The principal, by default, was also the photocopying machine operator as secretaries were unheard of in those years,). The principal himself, who was my teacher in a required drafting class, was one of the longest –serving teachers in the school, 35 years. He died three years after he retired, serving a total of 42 years. The truth is, I got really nothing to say in this post. I am now in the middle of my class, and thoughts about teaching just preoccupy my mind.