Library School

My teachers (all white) have been:
a hip (now pregnant) Hungarian special collections guru who was supernice and sometimes wore glasses;
a computer nerd (he agrees) who wore glasses and was nitpicky, to say the least;
a lazy Merchant Marine librarian with a thick Greek accent;
a glasses wearing romance-novel-loving lesbian;
a hip middle-aged woman with a terrific energy and a wonderful passion for libraries and books;
a Jersyite obsessed with Jasis and the intellectual world of library science;
and a 60-something with short blonde hair, small thick glasses, earrings that look clip-on, and sensible shoes.
The last teacher lullabyes me to sleep Tuesdays and Thursdays from 6 to 8:30 p.m. She has a kind grandmotherly voice, perfectly manicured nails, and rarely moves from her seat during class.

I wonder if an MLS will make me happy. I'm exhausted, wishing I weren't just halfway through library school.

I miss childhood. Or collegehood. Or MFAhood.