It’s rare that we wake up with a sense that today something truly fortuitous will occur. I guess that has to do with the etymology of the word:

1653, from L. fortuitus, from forte “by chance,” abl. of fors “chance.” It means “accidental, undesigned” not “fortunate.” (Online Etymology Dictionary)

We can’t foresee luck — it would be the ultimate oxymoron.

All of that notwithstanding, I woke up this morning feeling positively positive. I arrived home in a bit of shock.

For some time, K and I have known we will be moving out of the Asheville area — the real estate market is ridiculously overpriced. Yet where to go? We needed a place that’s developing so K can get a job; we needed a place with good schools and lots of them. Greenville, just across the border in South Carolina, seemed the ideal locale.

Spring comes, and the school systems across the countries publish their anticipated and actual staffing needs for the next year. As such, for the past few weeks, I’ve been checking the Greenville County Schools website almost daily, applying for almost every English/LA position that appears.

Last Sunday evening I got a call.

“Have you accepted a teaching position yet?”

I think: “Are you kidding? I haven’t even heard much of a ‘we received your resume thank you very much.'” I say: “No, not yet.”

“Would you be able to come this Wednesday for an interview?”

I think: “Try keeping me way.” I say: “Certainly.”

How fortuitous. I have an interview, and I can drop by a few schools as well.

I wake up this morning feeling that something good is going to happen. Something better than good — something beyond unexpected.

First school: principal is there, but not available. We’ll take your resume and be in touch.

Such has been my experience. It’s understandable — principals are busy, to say the least, and they don’t have the time to see every single applicant who drops it to try to get a head-start on the rest of the pack.

I drive to the second school. The receptionist doesn’t know where the principal is, but gets on the now-standard walkie-talkie and asks the principal if he’s able to come meet me. He’s in his office, and within a few moments, I’m sitting across from him as he looks over my resume and asks a few questions. Then: “Okay — you’ve got five minutes. Sell me.”

I’m not dressed for an interview; I’m not expecting an interview; I’m certainly not prepared for an interview at this moment — but apparently I’m having an interview.

What do I say? Long story, and perhaps I’ll share it here. Probably not. Suffice it to say that I do fairly well. How do I know?

“Well, I don’t want to make a decision right now,” the principal says, “But let me get in touch with your references and I’ll be in touch.”

There are moments when you’re fairly sure your ears are compacted with wax, or have been blown like Pete Townsend’s, or are submerged in water — certainly he didn’t say by implication, “You’re almost hired.”

At any rate, I walk out to my car in a bit of a daze. “I knew something good was going to happen.”

Lunch with a friend, then I change into my Superman suit and head across town to the interview. The actual interview. The scheduled interview.

Questions about

• the integration of technology and instruction;
• how I keep up with developments in my field;
• my comfort level of teaching to rigid standards (i.e., NCLB);
• how I might go about creating an atmosphere that is conducive to learning;
• what sorts of professional development programs might help me feel more comfortable teaching;
• how I might bring my life experiences into the classroom; and,
• how I dealt with the cultural and linguistic differences while teaching in Poland.

More questions, more answers — I am hot. I speak with a fluidity that I’ve never experienced in an interview. I’m enthusiastic. I’m succinct yet not wooden.

In the past, I’ve had absolutely awful interviews. I walk out to the car fighting the temptation to go back and say, “Look, let’s not play games. I know I blew it. Thank you for your time.”

During a pause in the interview, I think, “I might have a chance at this job!”

After that pause, I hear “And how would you respond if I offered you the position right now?”

Count to ten. Slowly.

I sat stunned for at least that long.

I think: “What would I do?!? Fight the urge to dance on the table! Swallow the ‘barbaric yawp’ that’s muscling it’s way up my throat!” I say, hoarsely: “Are you offering me the position?”

“Yes.”

Count to ten again. In the meantime, I look at all the other faces in the room. I remind myself that it’s May, not April. I slap myself mentally and shout, “You’re just sitting there like a zit, you dolt!”

What to say?

I go with the subjunctive voice:”I would ask when you would want a decision.”

“Now,” she says, with a warm and polite smile.

Red flags! Flashing lights! “Danger, Will Robinson!” Our Kia adventure made me hyper-sensitive to any kind of “decide now” situation. What’s going on? Do they have so few applicants? As Julie Andrews asks in Sound of Music, “What’s wrong the the children?”

As delicately as possible, I ask why the rush.

“Because we simply don’t want anyone else to snatch you up.”

I did wake up morning, didn’t I? I remember having my morning tea, followed by a now-rare morning coffee. No, I’m out of bed, showered, dressed, sitting in a conference room being offered a job, being told that my interview was “exemplary.”

After a tour of the school, meeting faculty and staff along the way, I go with my gut feeling. Back in the administrative offices, the principal says/asks, “So I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

The last person I meet on my way out is the secretary. “She’ll be sending your paperwork to the district office today,” says the principal.

And so, come August, I’ll be the new eighth-grade Language Arts teacher at Hughes Academy of Science and Technology.