Wiggling

It feels like I have made it across the looming moat of depressing career paths that involve reporting to a fluorescently-lit office where the microwave always smells like popcorn and soft rock is playing in the copy room and everyone hates their job and they all ask me if I'm a hipster.

I managed to wiggle my way out and escape to a far off land, to a little room with a little window teaching Kindergarden and reading books about ships.  

Teaching feels like acting. Everything I say, I say on purpose, for a reason. Not to be confused with "always saying the right thing," as I suffer from faulty reasoning, as a general condition. My job is essentially to teach English to the children and to not traumatize the children, which is surprisingly difficult. But Allah is merciful and gave me some wiggle room by putting me here, in this particular place, and at an international school. A handful of the students don't understand English, so I get a couple of chances to explain myself and take back any words that would have been better left unsaid. Now I just have to figure out how to take this wiggle room with me, wherever I go, and wearing an abaya twice my size, just in case. 
Of course, the working goal is to eventually not need it. Something about the word "wiggling" makes me feel like I'm better off without it.