crazymama

Going back to school has been one of the most humbling experiences of my life with the exception of becoming a parent. I have noticed that 13 years since starting college for the first time there are a few things that still remain the same

• Young people think old people are dumb
• The hierarchy is still the same and is as follows from highest to lowest:
  • Cool kids, jocks, regular people, wannabes, old people and foreigners (ESL or exchange students from uncool countries), and finally special ed kids

  Please note that I, as an old person, am only above the mentally challenged in this hierarchy.

One thing that is a little different this time around is the categories that the wannabes fall in. In my day (1996, to be exact) there were really only two kinds of wannabes. Alternative chicks and sluts. Nowadays, there are many different kinds

Another thing that remains the same is how much the brothers on campus seem to still  like my stuff. I think it is because the jiggle in front lets them know I am coming and prepares them for the wiggle in the back.  One regret from college is that I didn’t sample more Dark Chocolate when I could’ve. Probably because where I went to school there wasn’t much. And I was stupid.

I am 32 years old and still feel out of place, awkward, and inadequate at school.  Isn’t that ridiculous? I have so much to offer but I still feel like I don’t measure up somehow. Intellectually, I could grind these children under my heel. Emotionally, I wonder if they think I am lame.

All the classes I am taking are the same path for anyone applying to the nursing program. Every day I look around and see my competition.

Every Tuesday and Thursday between lecture and lab I eat my lunch in the fishbowl that is the cafeteria. I plug in my headphones and listen to music that was made when these kids were still shitting their pants. I watch them from a distance and smile at the dance that is so obvious now but was as good as a foreign language to me when I was their age. It is unnerving and strange to hear them discuss problems which to them seem insurmountable and to me seem shallow and unimportant.

Most of the time I have to quell the urge to scream at them, “Don’t waste it! Don’t waste this time worrying so much about what anyone else thinks about you! Don’t follow the script that your parents, friends, or anyone else has written for you! None if it matters. Really, none of that matters.”

Would they believe me? No. After all, in their minds I am one step above someone who is mentally handicapped. But I cannot lie when I say that I am captivated by their innocence and wish for some of that back. Just enough to stop being so cynical about the world. Not enough to forget what is important.