West Valley College, Photo by T.C.
IT MAY BE FUN IF IT DOESN’T KILL ME!
After taking the longest spring break in history, I’m finally returning to college. But then marriage, children and divorce court really do have a way of keeping a person busy.
I always loved motherhood. But between the diaper changes and doctor visits, I couldn’t tamp down regrets that I passed on a college degree.
Ah, the sweet innocence of youth! Three decades ago, I traipsed across campus on top of the world. I had the perfect Wine and Roses lipstick, four-inch Candies platforms and a hot boyfriend. But then financial and romantic troubles hit and all I could do was run and hide.
For all these years, the thought of returning to school
Ah, the sweet innocence of youth! Three decades ago, I traipsed across campus on top of the world. I had the perfect Wine and Roses lipstick, four-inch Candies platforms and a hot boyfriend. But then financial and romantic troubles hit and all I could do was run and hide.
For all these years, the thought of returning to school
was absolutely terrifying. Making lunches, battling Chicken Pox and preparing dinner for 12, that’s something I could accomplish with my eyes closed. But helping my kids with homework – that was proof that a new morning had broken on the horizon of education. Blackboards became white boards and formalities like titles of respect were old-fashioned.
“Yo, Dave! How’s it going?” would never sound like a proper way to address a professor. Even one younger than me!
I often forget my car keys, but I’ll never forget the day I became a born again student. Why couldn’t my three-sizes too-large jog suit fill with air and take me someplace where the pace was slower? Like a quiet rest home.
Trudging up a path while trying to ignore the young people passing me up, wasn‘t easy. And neither was that stabbing pain that ran the length of my shin and settled in the hard skin of a bunion.
“Yo, Dave! How’s it going?” would never sound like a proper way to address a professor. Even one younger than me!
I often forget my car keys, but I’ll never forget the day I became a born again student. Why couldn’t my three-sizes too-large jog suit fill with air and take me someplace where the pace was slower? Like a quiet rest home.
Trudging up a path while trying to ignore the young people passing me up, wasn‘t easy. And neither was that stabbing pain that ran the length of my shin and settled in the hard skin of a bunion.
I prayed that all the kids were too busy “chilling” with their life to notice that mine was sputtering out. But how could they not notice? My breathing was as labored as a two-ton elephant on a rampage!
When I finally reached the class, a hand resembling my Mother’s came from inside my pocket and pulled the door open. Of course, the only empty seat had to be across the room. I shimmied into it and flinched every time it let out a squeak.
What was I thinking? Where did I get the nerve? I expected Dr. Phil to burst in and administer a sanity test.
Single, unemployed 40-something year-old single Moms have a better chance to win the lotto and be photographed by Sports Illustrated than get a college degree.
I snapped back to reality when a small, smooth hand from the right slaps my desk and releases scrap of paper with a phone number. From the left, another hand slaps down another phone number.
And for once I’m speechless. Nobody told me that graying hair was code for, “I’m cool and throw the best parties!“
In addition to a new respect for the teaching profession, my attitude about the strangers I hid from, got a complete makeover. Most importantly, I began to accept my limitations.
I’ll always be grateful for the supportive faculty members. One school administrator, a former single Mom, offers a hug and says it’s okay to be me. When I need help getting books, she does what she can.
Surprise! Surprise! My classmates don’t consider me a freak. I’ve actually giggled during lectures with students three years older than my daughter. These kids include me in conversations.
Today I’m more than a Mom who nags about chores or a daughter too busy to make a phone call. I’m part of a group working to improve their lives.
Clearing cobwebs from my brain to get into the study groove was not a pretty site. But the “new” me who limps along, is a much better student than the “old” me who flitted around in feathered hair and bellbottoms.
My future is again full of possibilities – even if I do walk slower to meet it.
On days when I question my decision, it helps to remember the saying: “There is no destination, the journey is the thing.”
When I finally reached the class, a hand resembling my Mother’s came from inside my pocket and pulled the door open. Of course, the only empty seat had to be across the room. I shimmied into it and flinched every time it let out a squeak.
What was I thinking? Where did I get the nerve? I expected Dr. Phil to burst in and administer a sanity test.
Single, unemployed 40-something year-old single Moms have a better chance to win the lotto and be photographed by Sports Illustrated than get a college degree.
I snapped back to reality when a small, smooth hand from the right slaps my desk and releases scrap of paper with a phone number. From the left, another hand slaps down another phone number.
And for once I’m speechless. Nobody told me that graying hair was code for, “I’m cool and throw the best parties!“
In addition to a new respect for the teaching profession, my attitude about the strangers I hid from, got a complete makeover. Most importantly, I began to accept my limitations.
I’ll always be grateful for the supportive faculty members. One school administrator, a former single Mom, offers a hug and says it’s okay to be me. When I need help getting books, she does what she can.
Surprise! Surprise! My classmates don’t consider me a freak. I’ve actually giggled during lectures with students three years older than my daughter. These kids include me in conversations.
Today I’m more than a Mom who nags about chores or a daughter too busy to make a phone call. I’m part of a group working to improve their lives.
Clearing cobwebs from my brain to get into the study groove was not a pretty site. But the “new” me who limps along, is a much better student than the “old” me who flitted around in feathered hair and bellbottoms.
My future is again full of possibilities – even if I do walk slower to meet it.
On days when I question my decision, it helps to remember the saying: “There is no destination, the journey is the thing.”
triciachambers
