“Surprise!” is what Sookhee should have said when informing me of my school’s testing schedule. This week has already seen some effects of the rigorous testing of students, from a mildly rearranged schedule to the cancellation of some of my classes. As of the end of the day on Tuesday, I’ve taught four classes this week. Friday, I have no classes, but I do have a teacher outing that involves climbing a mountain. Next week, I have no classes at all. All week. But I do still have to go to work.
All this is to say that while surprises keep coming, my job is still treating me very well. Payday number two is on the horizon, I’ve been invited to play some sort of combination of volleyball and soccer with the other male teachers, and my school even bought me a microwave, which I didn’t deem necessary until around the fifth time I was reheating leftovers on the stove. Which leads me to the reason for this post. As if I haven’t already made myself out to be a buffoon, a klutz, and possibly a drunk here on EMA, I will now willingly hand even more ammunition to you, dear readers, in the form of Jake’s Most Embarrassing Moment In Korea So Far: Microwave Day.
But first, cherry blossoms!
Hooray! Aren’t they pretty?
Anyways, now that that’s done, I suppose I can tell you about the ungodly horror of Microwave Day. This story actually begins a few months ago when, as I was searching for what to pack for my journey to Korea, I came across some jeans that can only be described as “very old”. So old, in fact, that I’m not sure I’d seen them since high school. But they fit, and quite well, too. So I took these ancient tubes of denim with me to Korea thinking I’d just saved money by not having to buy another pair of jeans.
So on Microwave Day, the day that my school (perhaps unwisely) handed me its credit card to purchase a device with which to reheat my leftovers and make popcorn, I was wearing these jeans. I walked to Lotte Mart, which is sort of like a less depressing Korean version of Wal-Mart; it’s about a ten minute stroll. I was thinking that even if the microwave was heavy, it wouldn’t be too big, so I could lug it back to my apartment no problem, right? Right. Mostly.
See, as I got out of Lotte Mart, I decided to set the microwave down on the ground to rearrange myself and get a better grip on it. So as I bent down to pick it back up, guess what I heard? That’s right – the heart-stopping scream of tearing denim. Riiiiiiip. And this was not a small, nobody-will-notice-it tear. This was more of a deafcon five, let’s-just-put-up-a-windmill-to-catch-this-draft kind of tear. This was pants Armageddon, and I was just starting my journey home.
Naturally, I hitched up my pants and swung my stylish leather man-purse over my ass in an attempt to cover up the hole, picked the microwave back up, and did my best to amble on home like I didn’t know anything was wrong. All was going swimmingly until I heard the three words I was dreading the most:
“Hello, Mr. Dischee!”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. In the span of no more than one minute, Microwave Day had gone from a joyous celebration of cooking at the atomic level, to an embarrassing little anecdote, to an incredibly low watermark in my dignity. In fact, the water of my dignity was so low that I’m pretty sure the whole pool was drained.
“Hello,” I muttered back to the group of no fewer than four girls, who were leaning against the Lotte Mart wall eating ice cream.
“Where are you going, teacher?” one of them asked.
Great, I thought, conversation. Awesome. This will go well. “I am going home,” I said.
At this point I was passing the group, but taking great pains not to turn my back to them. This led them to think that I had more to say, so they watched me expectantly as I backed up as quickly as I could.
“You are hurry!” another one of the girls said.
“Yes, this is very heavy,” I said, hoisting the instrument of my doom to demonstrate that it was indeed quite heavy.
“Ah, heavy!”
“Yes. Goodbye!” I said, then turned sideways, still not showing them my full back, and scuttled off down the sidewalk like some sort of giant ungainly crab.
When I was about a block away from the students I stole a glance back in their direction. They were still there, eating their ice cream in silence and watching me. I’m pretty sure they were watching me simply because I was walking funny, so after checking to make sure that my bag was still in place over the gash in my pants, I bravely turned my back and walked like a normal human being. I prayed that I had managed to wear boxers that day that were roughly the same color as my jeans.
Three blocks from Lotte Mart there’s a stoplight. I figured if I could make it across the street I could take the back road home and minimize the risk of running into any more students. The thing is, stoplights in this country are notoriously slow. All lights are timed, and they seem to take anywhere from two minutes to an eternity to change. Today, this particular light took an eternity.
I leaned against the post and looked back over my shoulder. Guess what I saw? If you guessed more students, congratulations, you win a prize. Three this time, only a block and a half off and coming my way, with the light showing no signs of changing. I glared at the little red man on the sign across the street, willing him to turn green so I could try to outrun the students. For some reason the theme from Jaws started playing in my head.
I looked back. They were only a half block away now. I had no choice but to turn around and face them or risk, shall we say, exposure.
I saw one of the students gasp and nudge the student next to her. This is a common occurrence when I am spotted in town – the kids always seem shocked that I can exist in any other place but school. All three of them waved in unison.
“Hello, teacher!” they shouted happily.
“Hello,” I said.
“Nice to meet you!”
Usually I would correct this mistake, but at this point I was in no mood. I just sighed and said, “Yeah.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“You live where?”
I gestured vaguely in the direction of my neighborhood and said, “Over there.”
By this point the students were right next to me. After turning to face them I now found myself standing in a little circle, students staring expectantly up at me. And this time, I had nowhere to go. Instead, I shifted on my feet and fiddled with the strap on my bag and made a concerted effort not to make eye contact with any of them.
When they all walked away quite suddenly (shouting, “Goodbye, teacher!”) I realized that the light had finally changed. The students were walking ahead of me now, which was obviously far preferable to the alternative. I checked once more to make sure my man-purse was covering up the disaster area, reasserted my grip on the microwave, and carried on home.
The rest of the journey was fairly uneventful. There were no more groups of students, no more pauses for awkward conversation. I just hurried back to my apartment hoping that no one who worked at the school would pass by and try to stop me. When I got home I discovered I had been wearing my Green Bay Packers boxers that day, so the team may have gotten a little free advertising in Korea.
Anyways, there are three things I learned from this whole experience:
3. A man-purse is good for more than just carrying books and an iPod. Never be without one.
2. Your jeans are not as rugged as you think they are.
1. Never go commando. It’s just not worth it.
That’s all for today, readers. I hope you have enjoyed my shame.
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