The school year has begun, and, like I do every year, I concentrate on getting to know all of my students. As a 6th, 7th, and 8th grade teacher, and as the Gifted and Talented teacher, I do have some repeat customers. They are with me for all 3 years, and it is truly a gift that keeps on giving. Their curiosity is limitless, and their ability to reach higher is unbounded.

I also teach Art of Writing to all 3 grade levels. Though these children are not officially labeled “Gifted and Talented” like the others, they bring their own brand of magic and commitment. My goal is to make them love to write, the way I do, and perhaps help them appreciate and recognize the value of and in the written word.

Regardless of whether these charming chickens are my Art of Writing students or my Gifted and Talented students, the 6th graders are new to me every year. The day we meet, I am the hopeful and enraptured kid at my own birthday party, just waiting to see what is hidden inside of all of those “presents.” And, they are my presents.

I have a little 6th grade girl in my Art of Writing class, and as tiny as she is, her voice is tinier. Leaning in to hear and attend to her every word, she so quietly asked me if I have my own kids. Without hesitation, I told her that I have 3 adult children, and that my 2 girls each have 2 girls of their own. She responded so softly, “I think they’re lucky.”

I started thinking about luck, if it exists, if we play a role in it. The nature of the word implies that it’s completely random, but I do think that, whether by the face or the family we’re born into, or the charisma we cultivate, we do have some say in our circumstance.

I left school at 3:30 yesterday to go get a long-awaited massage. The place I go to a handful of times a year is so calming, and my masseur, John, almost makes my Xanax superfluous (the operative word is almost, so let’s not get ahead of ourselves here). A Keith Urban lookalike with a Dalai Lama temperament, he knows just what to do to loosen this chubby Jewish chick’s proverbial corset.

I pulled into a spot directly in front of the spa, but I was a tad early. Thinking I had time to go get gas, and knowing that I was only allowed to park in the spot for 90 minutes, I figured my timing would be perfect if I killed 10 minutes. I didn’t figure that somebody would slam into my car as I backed out of the spot.

As a degreed teacher of English, irony is never lost on me. It’s probably my favorite literary device. How ironic that I was going for a massage to relax, and I had a car accident instead. How ironic that I called my insurance agent earlier in the day to ask him why my car insurance is now $420 a month, when I have no accidents and no tickets. How ironic that my gentle and cherubic fledgling 6th grader thinks my kids are lucky, but they don’t.

I’m going away with one of my besties to see Jon Stewart this weekend. The first time we did a getaway, a man had a heart attack in front of us at the steakhouse where we were eating. The next time we did a getaway, a car was on fire on the opposite side of the road we were on. Something always seems to happen when Thelma and Louise head on one of their trips, and yesterday, this girl’s brand new BMW x3 was rear-ended so hard that the muffler and the catalytic converter aren’t even attached.

You know what’s really ironic, however? It’s really ironic that, while I continue to be challenged and rear-ended in the literal AND figurative senses of the word, I still consider myself lucky. I’m lucky that nobody was hurt yesterday. Unlike the man who hit me yesterday whose wife just died, everybody important to me is healthy. I’m lucky that I get to teach in a school and in a town where children and adults are valued. I’m lucky that I have girlfriends who are my sisters. I’m lucky that I get to go away this weekend with people that I love.