After 30 years, I’m making a second attempt at college. Not that I’ve been bored, quite the opposite. Marriage, children and divorce court really do have a way of keeping a person busy. But between the diapers and the honeymoon, l could never reconcile the fact that maybe I cheated myself.
Talk about youth being wasted on the young! At 20 I was free, unencumbered and on track to becoming the female equivalent of Woodward and Bernstein. My life as a student became complicated and I simply gave up. How I was going to pull it off such an adventure, I didn’t have a clue. Think about it, the last time I was a student, black boards were really black. But I knew I had to find a way.
I will never forget my first day as a born again student. Gravel crunches beneath my shoes. I plod along an inclining path that appears to lead to the peak of the college campus, aglow in halogen and star light. Gusts of wind whips my hair around my head, cotton candy style. My three-sizes too-large jog suit swells to the dimensions of a hot air balloon.
Shadow bodies with the grace of fairies float in all directions. A stabbing pain runs the length of my shin and circles the hard skin of a bunion. My nostrils flair against the scent of damp earth and shrubbery. Bits of inaudible conversations disperse through the air.
With a wrinkled hand I reach for the classroom door and let out of a grunt of thanks. I freeze in the doorway. Freshly painted walls, large clean blackboards, books neatly stacked on narrow metal tables. Students squeeze past the blob that has become my body.
I limp over to the only available seat, a tiny wanna-be-desk. I wince when it betrays me with a series of squeaks. Head down and eyes covered, I lapse into a reality check: An over 40, broke and unemployed single mother, more likely to be hit my a bus, stumbles out of seclusion to take on a Herculean challenge. She doesn’t know the difference between a scantron and an add code. Would the world find this behavior commendable and daring or certifiably insane?
A smooth, youthful hand slaps across my desk and releases a scrap of paper. “Brittany on your right 555-1234.” As if on cue, another manicured hand swoops in to deliver another paper. “Carey on your left 555-4321.”
Dumbfounded. I never knew that gray hair and crows feet were code for, “I’m loads of fun, you need to know me!“ For a moment I consider the possibly of mistaken identity and I fit the profile of a warm grandma type packing oatmeal cookies. I quickly dismiss the thought with a snort.
Over the next six months I’ll learn exactly how cynical I’ve become about the world and its inhabitants. Most importantly, I’ll begin to forgive myself for being human.
One school administrator, a former single mom herself, will make me feel that it’s okay to be me. She will offer a hug every time we meet and help with the text books I can‘t afford. Another faculty member will encourage me to keep writing when I’m riddled with self doubt.
During lectures I’ll giggle in the back of the room with students three years older than my daughter. I’ll stop camouflaging forehead wrinkles with crazy glue and cans of shellac. A 20-something male will grab my arm and insist we pay a surprise visit to a teacher down the hall. I’ll be seen as more than a Mom who nags about chores, a wife who rants about carpet spills or a daughter too busy to see her parents.
Clearing the cobwebs from my brain and getting into the groove of studying will be challenging. But eventually I’ll discover that the “old” me makes a much better student than the “young” me who traipsed around in platforms and bell bottoms.
And I’ll find a saying that sum it all up. “There is no destination, the journey is the thing.”
