On sweat

I used to be able to say I just don't sweat. Sometimes I'd stink--first day of teaching was always a ripe one--but it was never a matter of sweating through clothes or rivulets running down back, pits, temples, nose, and pouring from the fuzzy crevices.

And then it came to a head with one of those classes.

The guy who teaches before me looks scary as hell when he's not carrying a stick. And his stick is a few centimeters thick and wrapped with alternating bands of red and black tape that's been knicked and scarred through to raw wood.

The nicks are not from missing his targets.

And yes, a small part of me envies the hell out of him when I've seen him walking behind a lineup of guys with their faces to the board, whapping their calves.

The lady who teaches after me is the quiet and reserved librarian type whose blackboard whapping echoes three classes away, and whose students do not mouth off a second time. Ever. Then there's me.

So it came to a head and I pulled my last big straw: I waded into the sea of students to drag the most offensive out by his collar.

It's damn lucky he's a little shit, otherwise I would've had problems. But he's about 4'8" and I was able to lift him up by his collar and encourage him toward the board, where I drew a circle at adam's apple level and pinned his nose to it.

But the problem came when I realized that if any of the other guys stood up, even one, they would all realize they dwarfed me and removed any recourse if they decided not to do what I wanted them to.

And suddenly perspiration became a full-body competition.

Funny--I just typed runny, for what it's worth--how things change.