Flair. I don't know what the requirement is to get on the CBS lot, Jason, but I am required to wear a lovely badge to work each day to make it clear to everyone that I am not some deranged, mass-murderer hanging out at a middle school. My first year as a teacher I didn't have a lanyard for my badge, so I clipped it on to my clothes, usually near the bottom of my shirt. This placement may seem inocuous to the majority of the population, but when one of the assistant principals caught a glimpse of that badge she not-so-subtly pulled me aside and told me to move it immediately. Her motive? Apparently, my ID card was acting like a shining beacon, pulling hormonal boys' gazes to my crotch and distracting them from their learning. After an uncomfortable moment in which I stared at her in disbelief, I transferred my smiling face to the lapel of my shirt. Of course, this just diverted all of those adolescent eyes to my breast area. What was I to do? As soon as my educational drudgery ended that day I raced to a nearby store and purchased a fancy, black lanyard for my equally fancy badge. Over the years I have upgraded to a swanky lanyard from New Zealand and added some flair. Now I proudly sport "I heart Renton" and "Shoe addict" buttons, as well as my personal favorite, an orange pin that says "Sorry, I can't. I'm too busy being awesome." If you ever need some hip, funny flair, Jason, I'd be happy to steer you toward some local shops that specialize in such goods. It's about time the world appreciated flair as a necessary way to jazz up otherwise dull work accessories and not just something the Nazis had (thanks,
Office Space).
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