Before I became a journalist, I taught. My first job in New York was as a high school English Literature teacher. Back then, I was only six or seven years older than my students, which to me seemed like a lifetime and to them felt like 10 minutes. I lived in a different part of the city, so rarely encountered my students outside school. I can only remember one occasion when seeing them flustered me. I was at a bar in SoHo when two or three walked in. As we caught sight of each other my face fell, while their faces lit up.

“Hey Miss Gilbey,” they sang out. “Seeing as we’re all in a bar, can we call you Emma?”

“No,” I replied briskly. “You may not.”

Jessica Rosevear reminded me of all of this when she sent in today’s piece about being a teacher in a small town. She never gets to escape from her students. She has my sympathy.

It started out as cute. I’d see students in the produce aisle at Stop & Shop, give a friendly wave, and turn back to the task of selecting a head of iceberg lettuce. I didn’t realize how much of a problem it would be until one day, while buying a bottle of wine at the liquor store, I spotted a senior trying to pick up a case of beer. Throwing my money at the cashier and rushing out of the store, I felt more like I was the one committing a felony, not him. The tired human being craving a peaceful evening at home with a book and a glass of white suddenly became the wayward teacher, buying booze that she would drink alone in her yoga pants.

It snowballed from there. On a jog after school one day, I was mortified when the entire cross-country team passed by me on the sidewalk during their practice. I’ve been spotted on dinner dates with my boyfriend. When I got pulled over for talking on my cell phone while driving, I was more upset at the thought of being seen by students from whom I’d confiscate cell phones regularly than the thought of receiving a ticket. Last year, after realizing that two families from the school lived in my apartment building, I began covering the pajamas and thongs in my laundry basket with a big towel every time I went downstairs to the laundry room. I stopped ordering takeout for fear that one of my students might take an after-school delivery job.

“Be careful,” my colleagues warned me. “People talk in a small town.”

Paranoid, I envisioned the board of education discussing my tenure at a public meeting. “Her skimpy workout clothes, her traffic tickets, her boyfriend-she is a depraved, promiscuous young woman,” the board members would say, looking at each other and shaking their heads. Mothers fan themselves; fathers purse their lips. “How can we, in good conscience, keep this young woman working in our public schools?”

On the flip side, some kids enjoyed these run-ins that I found nightmarish. After running into one of my pupils several times between trips to CVS and Starbucks, I finally confessed my residential status. “I might move, though, so I don’t run into students as much,” I told her.

She looked chagrined. “But I love running into you!”

“You don’t need to see me buying US Weekly and cookie dough at Stop & Shop.”

“But it’s nice to know that you’re a real person,” she said.

Yes, teachers are real people who engage in real-life activities. And sometimes, being a townie helps me to connect in ways I never expected. Last year I frequently ran into one student’s mom in the mornings at the local bakery. At the end of the year, she told me how much her son enjoyed my class as we stirred our coffees at the milk counter during that last week of school. “He said he hopes his little sister gets you next year when she starts her freshman year,” she added.

I drove the rest of the way to school on a cloud that day. There are few compliments better than a student saying he hopes you go on to teach his little sister. Sometimes those moments happen more easily while ordering lattes than when erasing the blackboard. Maybe it’s good to get a little personal, not just be a talking head at the front of the classroom.

But I’m still picking another jogging route … at least until I turn 30.