We've talked about May before. This year, I keep saying I'm hanging on by my fingernails.  Then, I make my hands into claws and contort my face to illustrate the reality of my desperation. After that, I imagine falling into a pitch-black abyss, as I've actually chewed my fingernails down to ragged flecks of nothing and can't  hang on by them.

I've spent a lot of time telling Dan I think this May is the worst of all Mays.  I can see when he's placating me that he actually doesn't believe this.  Not even a tiny bit.

"It's always like this, but maybe this one is a little bit worse," he wisely concedes.

Last night, I think I told him fervently, "It's not!  This year is soooooo much worse."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," he said, and there might have been the edge of an eye-roll creeping in here, "but I can assure you that you're actually like this every year.  You're miserable every year.  And every year, I try to support you through it, knowing full well that after two weeks of misery, you're going to have like ten weeks OFF."

Hmm. I tried to tell him that I'm actually working for two of those weeks this year, so it's only eight weeks off,  but even I could hear the ridiculousness of that statement.  We can all be assured that I haven't completely forfeited self-awareness.  Sanity? Maybe.  Self-awareness? Check.

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The time I almost fell down when trying to teach eleventh graders about Bonnie Tyler.

The one May I tried to bribe my eighth grade advisory to win at kickball.