Comfort Station

I used to eat lunch in my room. My classroom. It seemed a whole lot easier, since I was going to have to return there soon enough, whether it was to open the door for a kid who had forgotten their jacket or to stick my head out into the hall to see who would be traipsing about inside during recess. I could check my e-mail and peruse the headlines. And I would eventually have to be there to start teaching again, so I could be there to prepare.
It took a year of being worn down by my fellow fourth grade teacher, I took a chance and stepped outside my comfort zone: I carried my bag filled with sandwich, apple and water to the Teacher's Lounge. I didn't imagine that it would be a dimly lit room full of velvet couches and a hint of incense in the air. It was a fluorescent-lit room with four tables and a bunch of grown-up sized chairs that we shared with two copy machines and a couple dozen cases of paper. Occasionally we needed to scoop up the remnants of somebody else's frustration with the copier or move the die-cut pumpkins to the side to make room for our midday repast.
As it turns out, the actual lunch experience was completely enhanced by having adult conversation. All those little problems and challenges drifted away in a blur of thirty-five minutes. Sure, we spent some of that time comparing notes on the progress of the day. Who did well on the math test. Who was stomping hard on our last nerve. I felt like the day had a center. It was no longer just one long blur of children's faces and questions about why they couldn't be first in line. For that portion of an hour, I was free of the grind. I knew where the grind was, and I would be back to it soon enough, but I learned to savor my time in the oasis, until the bell rang and the next act began.