I recently got hired on by my graduate school to teach a 200 level writing course. I have no idea how this happened. There was an application process in there somewhere, but I think it malfunctioned and failed to filter me out of their system. I don't think I've worn matching socks in years (not for lack of trying, either), and my diet consists of Taco Bell and dreams. There is no way I am equipped to teach college students how to write.
Yet, here I am.
And for the month I had to prepare, I was pumped. I might be disorganized, forgetful, and prone to fits of daydreaming during conversation--but my school believed in me. And that was enough to make me believe in myself.
The morning of my first day, "Eye of the Tiger" might as well have been playing on repeat.
I wasn't just employed as a professional--I acted like a professional. I drove to work and didn't even get lost (more than once). And even though the pants I wore were clearly ironed by a twelve year old (or a twenty-three year old with limited experience who had to borrow one from her roommate), they were ironed.
Finally, my moment came.
I've made a huge mistake.
