A Casual, Day-Long Stroll in My Shoes

The day starts like any other day.
Which is to say: against my will.

Weekends are exempt from this story. Those are mythical creatures. Monday through Friday, though? Any one of them will do. If God is feeling playful—and He often is—it will somehow be all five at once.

It begins with me opening my eyes, because if you’re anything like me, you don’t wake up to the alarm. You wake up the alarm. There’s that one-eye-open stare at the phone as it screams on the nightstand, while your brain tries to decode the time like it’s ancient hieroglyphics.
6:15 a.m.

I groan. I sigh. I briefly consider calling in dead. Not sick—dead. It feels more honest.

A few minutes later—possibly ten, possibly thirty, time is already a lie—I roll out of bed. My body objects. Loudly. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring into the middle distance, asking myself the same question I ask every morning:

How did I used to wake up early for fun?

Eventually, I shuffle toward the bathroom.
The next part needs no explanation. Civilization depends on this moment.

Showering and getting dressed are standard human procedures, right up until I bend down to tie my shoes. This is where I pause, brace myself, and hope today is not the day I lose consciousness on the bedroom floor over a shoelace.

It’s 7:00 a.m. I’m fully dressed and still deeply unconvinced that the day has officially started.

Where is my coffee?

Family logistics are handled quietly. Everyone else is asleep—living their best lives. The dog gets his morning outside time, which he treats like a sacred ritual. I grab my things and head out, not ready, but committed. Life has started the conveyor belt and I’m already on it.

I pull into work around 7:30 a.m. Traffic is light. The campus, however, is awake in that specific way teenagers are awake—physically present, spiritually unavailable.

Students drift in like extras in a zombie movie, clutching venti-sized Starbucks cups with names that feel legally questionable. Others carry Jack in the Box bags leaking grease like evidence. A few have the legendary XXL 7-Eleven soda, which contains enough caffeine to reanimate a woolly mammoth.

I greet people on my way to the office. By the time I sit down, the air already feels tense—like the day is stretching its knuckles.

I blink.

It’s 8:00 a.m.

I have already spoken to two parents, one teacher, and somewhere between three and five students. There was an unfair detention, a fight that happened four miles away yesterday but is somehow my responsibility today, a parking space dispute that feels deeply personal to everyone involved, an ASB lunch concern, missing keys, and clearance for a cheer activity. These are not separate issues. They are a single, living organism.

Coffee.

Where is my coffee?

I know I brought it.

Of course.
It’s in the car.

I head out to retrieve it and am immediately intercepted by a proctor and two students. There’s been a verbal altercation. One student slapped the other. Everyone is shocked, including the student who did the slapping.

Back to the office.

By 8:45, both students are handled, parents have been called, and everyone agrees it “won’t happen again.” The coffee remains in the car, aging gracefully.

The superintendent calls. Wants to talk about upgrading the baseball field. It’s a good conversation. Forward-thinking. Optimistic. Hope briefly enters the room.

9:25 a.m.
The coffee is still in the car.

At this point, it’s not coffee. It’s a lesson.

From 9:30 to 11:00, the day becomes a blur of emails, phone calls, walk-ins, walk-outs, a campus walk-through, and a parent meeting that starts calm and ends emotional. This is the job. This is always the job.

Lunch supervision begins at 11:20. Split lunch, which means I get to be outside. The weather is decent. A breeze drifts through campus. Students flood the quad.

The cafeteria menu is surprisingly respectable: spicy chicken sandwiches, pizza, fresh fruit, milk, hotdogs, chilitos asados. I silently judge none of it.

Kids gather under shade structures. Some play Uno. Some play soccer or basketball. Some are on Chromebooks, allegedly doing homework, spiritually doing anything else. I see at least three phones being hidden badly.

Just another normal lunch.

The radio chirps.

I spoke too soon.

I’m needed in the office. Three students skipped class. A parent is on the phone demanding to know how her child could possibly be marked absent when she personally dropped them off at the front gate. The mystery remains unsolved.

By the time I return, it’s 1:05 p.m. Lunch is over.

My stomach reminds me it exists and would like to file a formal complaint. I retreat to my office, close the door, and disappear for thirty minutes. No radio. No email. No knocks. Just a sandwich, chips, and a Coke. This is what self-care looks like in education.

At 1:45, I meet with my fellow assistant principal—my partner in professional chaos. Today’s topic: improving attendance. It is both critically important and deeply unexciting.

We are interrupted.

Choose your adventure: student altercation, vape alert in the girls’ restroom, backpack search, maintenance checking a work order, or the SRO reviewing a case. Sometimes you get all five.

Suddenly it’s 2:55 p.m. Dismissal looms.

Dismissal is a beautiful mess. A tidal wave of students surges out, phones instantly activated. You can feel the Wi-Fi strain under the load—a digital groan rippling through campus.

Most days pass without incident. Some students linger. Others head to sports, clubs, or freedom.

At 3:20 p.m., I lock my office and head to my truck.

There it is.

My coffee.

Cold. Forgotten. Loyal.

I take it with me anyway, because closure matters.

I head to a leadership meeting at the district office. The agenda is long. The meeting is productive. My brain slowly turns into oatmeal.

At 5:00 p.m., I text the family: What’s for dinner?
The kids vote for fried chicken. Democracy is alive and well.

I stop at the store, get home around 5:30, and immediately change into clothes that have given up on ambition. Dinner gets going. My son helps—mashed potatoes and his signature lemon-garlic sauce, which is legitimately excellent.

Time dissolves.

We eat. We talk. We laugh. Someone asks about work.

No.

We will not be doing that.

We do not talk about Bruno.

Eventually, devices appear. I play puzzle games, mess with music, maybe write a little. Snacks happen. Ice cream exists. The dog chases a laser like a cat with commitment issues.

Around 10:00 p.m., the day exhales. Bedtime routines kick in. One last snack. One last scroll. Then sleep.

Sometime around midnight, the lights go out. My brain wanders freely until morning, when I will once again wake up my alarm, make it coffee, and step back onto the conveyor belt.

Maybe tomorrow, my coffee will actually make it into my office.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.