A few weeks ago, while sitting in the sunshine at an outdoor cafe with my husband, sipping a glass of white wine, my cell phone rang. I missed the call but saw it came from the dean of one of the colleges where I teach.
My husband of 20 years was not offended that I returned the call to the dean as we sat waiting for a lunch to arrive. Phone calls from deans are not that common.
She called to offer me a job as "Visiting Professor."
What did that mean? Well, I'm not entirely clear, except I have to teach a minimum number of hours per year and I'll be assigned classes before the other contract employees. That was me until the phone call -- a contract employee, which meant I was paid 10 weeks after the class began in one big check. Now I'll receive bi-weekly paychecks, which should help us plan a budget better.
I said yes to the job offer, though, mainly because I like the title: "Visiting Professor."
It implies that I'll be moving on to other colleges and other students very soon. Maybe I'll make a stop in San Francisco, Provence, Rome, Wellington, New Zealand. As a "Visiting Professor," I am free to roam with my exquisite skill teaching English composition.
Earl and I clinked our wine glasses together as the lunch time traffic shuffled past. I ate cashew-encrusted mahi mahi along with mushroom risotto, and as we moved toward the car, I suggested that Earl walk at least four steps behind me since I am now a "Visiting Professor."
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