Going back to school after seven years is a good time.
Had I not abandoned school seven years ago because I was under the assumption that I’d rather be an apron wearin’ June Cleaver wifey, I’d have a better adjective than ‘good’.
But nope! I threw it all away, and now get to claw my way back into the campus one credit hour at a time.
I keep telling myself that I’m an endearing star of a sitcom about a girl-woman finding herself and rising out of the ashes of her self-made natural disaster. (Think Mary Tyler Moore! Or Lucy when she ditched Desi and just had the Lucy Show! Can I get a Bea Arthur, at least? Who didn’t love Bea Arthur?)
I know deep down I’m a circus worthy spectacle.
But my classmates sure don’t realize their own potential.
I’m pretty sure they’re under the assumption that they are entirely normal.
The wreak havoc on my A.D.D.
There’s the chick who sits in front of me. She wears stripper heels 24/7. My driving desire to understand people and their motiviations goes wild on this one. The first time I saw her, she was wearing rainbow glitter heels with zippers up the back. The puzzling part was her juxtaposition outfit of blue jeans and a tank top. Oh, but why? Why the stripper heels with the casual outfit? Was she planning on pole dancing for our professor? Was she due for her shift at the strip club directly after class? Did she plan on using the sharp pointy heel as a weapon if attacked? I decided to chalk this up as a one time fashion error.
But tonight, the trainwreck charted a sequel crash-course. This evening’s selection involved a tank top, blue jeans……and eight inch leopard print stilletos. I stared, horrified, as she Peg Bundy heel strutted into the classroom, and slammed her books down on the desk, commanding everyone’s attention.
I raised my eyebrows, and mentally wished I had some pearls to clutch with a horrified look on my face.
I nicknamed her ‘Daddy Issues’ and turned my attention to the conversation behind me.
There were three students older than myself, and they were very reassuring to me in as that I got to remind myself that even though I’m a late in life student, at least I’m not coloring my greys and wearing prescription reading glasses yet.
They were united in harassing the young girl next to them.
“You know who had good clothes,” asked the sweat pants wearing female leader, “Venture. That’s who had good clothes.” Sweat Pant Diva’s two male counter parts grunted in agreeance, and the young girl squeaked, “What’s a Venture?”
This question was met with loud groans by the Pals In Poligrip . “You don’t know what Venture is? What are you? Eighteen? Too young, too young.”
The grandfather sitting to the left of me turned in his chair and pointed his finger at her.
“You know what I did last weekend? I biked twenty-six miles. My grandson couldn’t keep up with me. I bet you couldn’t bike twenty-six miles.”
I almost expected a commercial jingle to cue up behind us, and the grandfather would then coo to the camera the virtues of Metamucil Plus Fiber, because being a senior citizen doesn’t mean the end of being senior sexy!
Instead, I just shook my head and felt sympathy for the girl. I wanted to pat her on the hand and tell her that waking up in some frat boy’s room with a hell of a hang over, and no recollection of the last ten hours was probably far more fun than a twenty-six mile bike ride, anyways.
As the Golden Club reminisced on, I was distracted by the boy to my right.
Why was I distracted?
Because he could not keep his hands out of his pants.
I’m a girl (if you were ever wondering), and I lack the parts to have sympathy….but I just wanted to take young Jimmy/Willy/Peter aside and explain to him that he did not need to readjust his parts every thirty seconds, and if he did, then he should consider some sort of topical cream or Valtrex.
It must have been some sort of unfortunate tic for Jimmy/Willy/Peter, because easily he spent half of the class period stirring the contents of his pants. When he wasn’t stirring his pants, he was messing with his cell phone. Jimmy/Willy/Peter- young man-I am not paying 90 dollars a credit hour to watch you shuffle the meat locker, nor text your homedogs. If you continue with such actions, I will have to throw you to the Golden Club so they can school you on what manners meant to their generation, and about how in their day they kept in touch with their friends by connecting two empty cans with some yarn up hill both ways while in the snow.
I was then snapped out of my reverie as the professor concluded, “And that’s all you need to know as far as what content will be on the test next class period.”
What? Huh??? Test????
Shit.
Some things apparently do not mature with age, and my attention span is one of them.
I wonder since now that I’m an older student, my forged note for missing the next class period will look more realistic.
