A Big One

Day 27: It would be a mostly true thing to say that, before coming here, I considered myself relatively safe from running afoul of any romantic interests or entanglements. And it’s not just because I think it would be creepy to date someone more than a decade younger than me.

No. No wait. That’s a lie. That’s exactly the reason: Dating someone a decade younger than me would be creepy. Creepy and annoying. And weird. It would be creepy and annoying and weird for me.

And that’s a personal preference. Such an arrangement works for plenty of other people who are in happy, healthy, fulfilling relationships with people 10, 20, or even 30 years their junior and I say, “More power to them!” I think it’s great, insomuch as I wouldn’t have (nor have I ever had) any problem dating someone 10+ years older than me. Even a lot more than 10+.

I wouldn't feel like I was robbing the cradle or anything like that. I’m comfortable with my own choices. It’s just... them. The twenty-something.

They're... twenty-something.

Twenty-somethings tend to be boring. As in completely uninteresting. As in predictable, unoriginal, meme-regurgitating, proto-humans nigh incapable of independent thought, scrambling about trying disassociate themselves from expectations, eager to discover and define themselves. And I think that is all necessarily so. And maybe that opinion makes me a bit of a ageist. 

Ok, that definitely makes me an ageist. A big one. 

So... caveat lector... or something.

I know firsthand that those things aren’t true of all twenty-somethings, but I’ve had enough personal experience to have formed a “reasonable” preference. But who knows? I could meet a twenty-two old tomorrow who completely changes my mind. I’m comfortable admitting that part of me is more or less open to that possibility. I say "more or less" because I regard the prospect of such a thing as likely as me winning the lottery. Which, I hear tell, you can't win without playing. 

And I have no intention of playing. So I didn't prepare. 

And now he's sitting directly across from me.

Most mornings, I find myself in the library before 9 am. Being a creature of habit, I choose the same seat in front of the same computer each morning. Each morning, so far, there's been a bearded someone sitting just across from me. But it wasn't until today that I noticed him.

As in, "I noticed him".

As in, "I took more time than usual deciding what to wear this morning, and couldn't figure out why". As in, "I skipped breakfast at the Student Union, skipped up the stairs to the library, and nearly tripped over myself getting to my usual seat". As in, "I felt all kinds of funny and uncomfortable in that good sort of way, that feeling that begs to either be acted upon or violently murdered and buried".

I have a crush. I have a library crush. And I have named my Library Crush "LC". Or "Libeary" - (Barry, for short [and for pun]). And, much to my delight (and quite against the grain of my lengthy caveat), he does not appear to be twenty-something. At all. 

Nonetheless, I'll be keeping my distance. Just to be safe. And I will continue to pretend I am going to the library for reasons other than Barry. Because I have work to do.

Library work.

*ahem*

Confidence Game

Day 19-26: Things are getting... weird. And by that I mean the last week has been a struggle in a surprising sort of way.

That is to say things have been going well. And it's making me super uncomfortable.

The more good news I get, the more nervous I get. I keep waiting for something to happen, some sort of tragedy or run of bad luck that'll throw me off my game. I keep waiting to screw something up.

What if I get sick? Like "Lifetime Original" or "Memorial Fund" sick?

What if my car breaks down? Or it gets wrecked an accident?

What if I forget something important? What if there's something I forget to write down or schedule or show up for?

I check and double-check. I study and review and over-analyze. Even though every looks fine. Even though everything is okey-dokey.

It's a confidence thing. Mostly. And, most days, I'm ok.

It's a constant struggle adjusting to the course workload and accompanying expectations. In the "real world" the work can be as difficult if not more so, but, more often than not, the focus is more specific. In the "real word", one rarely has to bound between 4-5 different very focused disciplines 18+ hours at a time each day (even though working professionals would swear the opposite is true). In the "real world", one doesn't have to get up and walk a quarter mile every 90 minutes.

And, in the "real world", there's almost no such thing as homework.

I'm doing well. But it's a struggle to relax and just plain enjoy the learning process. I'm feeling more capable as I become better acclimated, but it's still... taxing. Maybe things will be better after midterms. Maybe with a semester under my belt, I'll have gained a bit more confidence.

This feels like the beginnings of a burn out - a PG-13 mild and almost entirely harmless burnout, but a burnout nonetheless.

Spring break should take care of that.

*fingers crossed*

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

On a completely different note, I had the good fortune to be a featured storyteller at an event called "The MOuTH at The Mark Twain House" in Hartford, CT this past weekend. It was delightful. Also there was vodka.

This was the first of several planned “The MOuTH” events at the Mark Twain House and Museum Auditorium. For the inaugural storytelling event, the story theme was "love".

So I told a love story. A real one.

If you're interested in hearing my story, feel free to click the photo for a link to the audio:

D. Brathwaite - The Mark Twain House - February 22, 2013 

Spell

Days 16 - 18: The prospects of posting an update everyday are becoming less and less likely as time goes on. I find myself constantly buried in work. And, while that is a good thing, particularly considering that I'm managing to keep up with it all, it means that a few things have had to be sacrificed in order to make staying on task as feasible and least taxing as possible.

Translation: It's getting busy. Very busy.

Last week was strange. I was sick with some kind of cold/flu sort of thing and struggled to make it to classes. Things got dicey. I almost started to fall behind. I found myself staying up later than normal, fighting through the sickness, trying to complete homework. The night of Day 18 I gave up and went to bed early. As much as I wanted never to fall behind, I had to admit that the late nights were defeating the purpose. I needed a good night's rest. So I got one.

The following day (Day 19, for those keeping count [Friday]), I felt 1000 times better in terms of my health but went to school feeling under prepared and overwhelmed. I only had the one class that day but, still, I arrived early, sweating, actively trying not to grind my teeth. I couldn't remember what, if anything, was due. I braced myself to take a couple lumps and maybe look a little foolish and found a seat.

Class went fine.

Turns out, during one of my semi-lucid fever dreams, I'd managed to do all the necessary readings. My retention was... dicey - a lot of things ended up "cross-mojinated" - but I managed ok. In fact, everything was just swell. And then I realized that I'd lost my inner monologue.

Rather, my classmates and I realized that my inner monologue had become a monologue. And my voice carries.

A woman in class was arguing that having a second Constitutional Convention  would be "UnAmerican". She went on at some length, pasting together partially formed ideas with borrowed dogmatic nonsense. I laughed to myself (or so I believed) and thought (as in "said aloud"):

What are you talking about? Parroting inherited dogma is no substitute for making a reasoned argument. [Mockingly] "I gots me a bed made up o'American flags! My pubes spell out the whole Constitution in cursive. Don't tread on me, bitch! 9/11! 'Merica!"

There was an exquisite moment of silence in which I believed that one of my worst nightmares had come true. That is, everyone in the class could read my mind, and I couldn't stop thinking inappropriate things.

The kid to my right stifled a laugh. The woman turned and looked at me utterly nonplussed with a hint of rudderless indignation. I smiled involuntarily.

She went crimson and seemed to swallowed what must have been a very choice string of expletives, turning to face forward, folding her hands on her desk like she was in Sunday School.

I stayed after class, taking my time, carefully gathering my things, praying (Please, Jesus!) that she had a class to get to or something. In my fevered mind's eye, she was standing just outside the door, waiting to vomit up the hateful gooey invective she had been forced to chew back during class. I was in no mood to explain or otherwise defend myself.

I was, after all, a sick man.

After nearly 10 minutes, I peeked into the hallway. Seeing her gone, I made my escape, waddling under the weight of my bookbag, smirking.

Dear Karma: I didn't mean it. Honest.

Backup

Day 15: The campus is still recovering from Friday's historic blizzard. Nearly all my usually paths to class were made treacherous by snow and ice. I tripped and slid my way to Spanish.

No le gustó.

Ditto on the way to Statistics. Headphones Guy was in attendance (headphones and all) but, this time, he was at least 6 rows behind me and, thus, easy to ignore.

About 15 minutes into class, I started to feel... weird. Weird turned into headache. Headache joined hands with nausea. Then muscle soreness. Then sweat.

I took notes and ignored the signs.

After class, I usually head to the Student Union for lunch. This time, I headed straight for my car, eager to get home. I wouldn't acknowledge the "S" word, not even to myself, not even in my head. But, by the time I got home, there was no denying it.

I was sick.

I am sick. Sick as in well beyond "as a dog" sick. Sick as in "a hodgepodge of biological wrongness sick. I am a sad, frustrated, shuddering mass of anti-masculine cliches.

So I'm a Taylor Swift album.

Or a Hot Pocket.

That's it. I'm a human Hot Pocket: Gross. Brown. Awful. Molten on the outside. Frozen in the middle. Generally bad for everyone's health.

There's a lot of grossness and confusion happening here.

I am slugging back a cornucopia of rainbow flavored pills and electric colored cold medicines, my bowels a churning cauldron of partially digested whatnots, frothing and churning, heaving and roiling with turgid brownish...

...

I am sick.

I am sick and I have class tomorrow.

And I did not plan for this.

Snow Day

Day 14:

Faculty, Staff and Students:

It is 10:45 p.m. on Thursday, February 7, 2013.

The following information pertains to ALL UConn campuses.

Due to inclement weather, all UConn classes are canceled on Friday, February 8. Classes will resume Monday morning, February 11, as scheduled.

There was more but I stopped reading there. It was official. Class was canceled. Even "classes will resume Monday morning" seemed like wishful thinking on their part. Maybe there wouldn't be class on Monday either. Maybe school was canceled forever!

In a moment, I was transformed into a 10 year old boy,jumping out of my seat and screaming "Woo hoo! Snow Day!" I spiked my book on the floor and went tearing up the stairs, whooping and banging on the walls.

I burst into Warren's room, panting, wild eyed, and eager. The look he gave me instantly reminded me that I was a grown-up. "What are you doing?", it said. "What is WRONG with you?"

"Snow Day", I mumbled, the words tumbling out of my mouth like an apology, muddy with regret.

That didn't last long.

I tore down the stairs, skipping the last few, whisper-yelling "Snow Day! Snow Day!" over and over. I took off my pants and waved them over my head like a victory flag. I could stay up as late as I wanted! I could DO whatever I wanted! I WAS FREE! FREEEEE! And I was going to make the most of it.

My pants fell to to floor, forgotten.

Ten minutes later, as I struggled with my Statistics homework (my super awesome and Xtreme!!1!11! Statistics homework!) There was a knock at the door. My pants, a vanquished totem, were across the room by the fireplace. I could answer the door or I could get my pants. I did not have time to do both.

Warren answer the door just as my hands worked the zipper closed. Words were exchanged but I couldn't make out the conversation. I looked out the window and, though the snow was making it difficult to see, I thought I spied a car across the street wedged in a snow bank.

A few minutes later, Warren opened the door all the way. A woman came in covered head to toe in snow. Apparently, she'd ran out of gas right in front of the house, but not before she buried herself in a snowbank. She shivered sitting on the last few steps of the staircase, the snow melting into a puddle at her feet.

She didn't have triple A, and,even though both Warren and I did it didn't matter. Every single local AAA participant was closed. AAA informed us that the nearest person wouldn't arrive for several hours. The woman excused herself and went outside to stand by her car and smoke a cigarette.

I wondered. I wondered but didn't ask, "Why on Earth would she venture out in this weather?"

Apparently, they don't watch the news where she's from. Or talk to other humans who watch the news. Or look outside. Or practice good judgement.

The fact that she was wearing snow pants leads me to believe that she may have seen this coming.

Her exact words were, "I'm from Canada. I thought I could handle it."

There was more to unpack in that statement than I cared to deal with. It was late. And she, the cause of my re-pantsing, was, therefore, my enemy.

By 1:30 AM, the plows had twice done the job of completely burying her SUV. At this point, she was out of her jacket and shoes, seated in the living room and sipping tea - tea, which she requested with "...two tablespoons of honey... OR sugar... or nothing" and then laughed her malfunctioning garbage disposal laugh.

She smelled like smoke. She cussed a bunch. She pretended to know what The Chronicles of Riddick was about. And her laugh made her sound like she was gagging on a toilet brush.

Also there was still the re-pantsing for which I still held her completely responsible.

My statistics homework was done, and I was fading fast. Warren offered to stay up while I rested. I was asleep in no time.

I woke up to the sound of her complaining about the coffee Warren had made. I got out of bed and made my way downstairs. By then, Warren was out snowblowing the driveway. She heard my footsteps and gave me an enthusiastic "Good Morning!" in a gritty siing-song voice before I'd even turned the corner. I wasn't in the mood to talk, but she was.

Unpromted, she admitted that going out into the blizzard was "..not smart, especially 'cause I was impaired!" She paused for a second, and then, "Well it was only the ONE drink... but it was a GOOD one."

She laughed nervously. I did not.

Other classic one-liners (all followed by nervous laughter):

"Maybe I would't have run out of gas if I wasn't blowing donuts in the Stop and Stop parking laugh." 

"I've had five car accidents since 2000."

"I think the dog knows about the nerve damage in my legs."

"This blanket just wanted enough! I was about to steal your dog!" [note: She was sleeping on the couch directly in front of the fireplace, covered in a thick blanket] I was twice as far as she was, without a blanket, and I was sweating]

"I may doze off. I just took a bunch of my 'Don't-Kill-My-Boyfriend' pills. [pause] Can you put on Animal Planet? I just LOVE puppies."

It was about noon when I changed the channel to "Animal Planet". 5 minutes after this, she passed out. So far as I could tell, she's was breathing.

She woke up three times; Once to use the bathroom (I think) and once more after that to eat the last brownie. After eating the last brownie, she seemed to fall asleep again. Then, 10 minutes later, she suddenly sat up and declared, "I LOVE ALL LIVING CREATURES!" before looking around, confused, and then falling asleep again.

I debated driving her home.

Throughout the day she spoke freely about her relationships past and present, playing familiar, fast and loose with context as if I already knew the details. Her story changed repeatedly:

She ran out of gas because she got lost, visiting a friend.

She ran out of gas because there's a hole in her gas tank and it only holds one gallon. She was dropping off her ex-boyfriend and he'd invited her in for a drink. One drink. She only had the one.

And so on.

We'd called the police but, unless it was a medical emergency, nothing was happening.

Eventually, her boyfriend/ex-boyfriend/brother called to say he was on his way. When she announced this, I cheered. Loudly.

By 5PM she was gone. A police officer had finally showed up and ticketed her, due to the parking ban. Within minutes of that, her boyfriend/ex-boyfriend/15-year long fiance showed up to gas her up and pull her out of the snowbank. To my complete and utter shock and surprise, he was dressed in full camo.

She and her gentlemen friend spent the entire time arguing. I shoveled the driveway and watched as he struggled to her out, shouting and demanding things. He eventually managed (barely) as the police officer looked on from his cruiser, lights flashing.

She waved and shouted "THAAANK YOOOU!", before hoping into her car and driving off.

The minute she was completely out of sight, I finished off the driveway. Then I went inside, and took off my pants.

Finally.

Strider

Day 13: I hit the snooze button three times this morning. Each time, I told myself that all I needed was ten more minutes, and, each time I knew that that was untrue. I didn't need ten more minutes. I needed a day. Two more days. A week, even.

Walking to class wears me out. There. I've said it. Admitting it makes me feel like some sort of out of shape corporate American schlub which, itself, makes me feel twice as awful because it's accurate. At my last job, I sat at a desk all day and ate, occasionally moving the piles of food aside to slam my hand into the keyboard at my desk and check my email.

When one class ends, I have ten minutes to get to the next and find a seat. That's ten minutes in which I have to pack up my stuff, put on my coat, find my way out of the building, trek across campus (none of my classes are close to the other), find a seat (if there's one left, else I stand), unpack the things needed for that class, and take notes.

For the first two weeks, I'd barely make it in time. I'd show up to class sweating, huffing, leaning against the wall, willing myself not to pass out. Then I'd immediately have to nab a seat, focus, and start learning/noting. The professor would spout material so quickly, my hand would cramp from noting. I'd drop my pen and massage my paw, hoping to be able to catch up.

Most days, I'd leave class feeling completely out of my league. I questioned whether or not I'd even make it to midterms. I wondered, sincerely, if I had made a mistake coming back to school, taking on more debt and stress in the process.

But only for a moment. Because, before I knew it, I was in another class. Sweating. Noting. Learning. Cramping. Hoping.

And then in my car. And then home. And then homework. And then sleep. And then alarm clock. And then class.

The days have cycled by so quickly, I haven't yet had much of a chance to entertain quitting long enough to do anything about it. But, if I being honest with myself (and you, reader) I have to admit that the feeling was there.

The feeling IS there.

In the midst of one of these funks, I found myself in my adviser's office. I didn't precisely mention how I was feeling but she must have sensed it anyway. She talked with me about persistence - "stick-to-itiveness", she called it - and the importance of pushing through to the end, regardless of the consequence of failure or any perceived lack of ability. I took her words to heart and decided to focus on finishing class strong, for that day.

And I did.

The next day, I woke up sore from all the walking I'd done the previous day. I rolled over saying to myself, "It's early in the semester. I can miss ONE class." But my adviser's words haunted me. And, with them, the spectral skeleton of my attempt at college loomed, giving me a reason to get out of bed. And run.

Today, I found myself walking to Spanish with my headphones on, wondering why everyone was walking so slowly. I got to class with enough time to grab a seat up front, and with 5 minutes to spare. I was still worn out, still breathing heavy, still sweating like a convict, but I was faster. Fast enough to get a seat. And then fast enough to keep up with the professor. And then fast enough to get to Statistics early, so early that I had time to check my email and buy a soda.

"Stick-to-itiveness", she called it.

I still worry. I'm worrying as I type this and, likely, as you read this. But I'm still going.

After Statistics, I made my way over to the library, taking note of how the walking felt. My knees hurt a little and my back was sore. Wind shot out of me in great white bursts. I was miserable. But, for the first time, it felt like something that I might be able to get used to.

If only for today.

"A" for Anticipation

Day 12: One of my first assignments for English was to a response to the foreword of the book we'd been assigned. The book, "Beowulf and Other Old English Poems" had a somewhat lengthy and needlessly complex preamble. I read it twice: once because I had to, and once more because once wasn't enough.

I debated reading it a third time but decided against it, opting instead to write a paper based on the notes I made during my initial reading - notes, I should mention, that were anything but flattering with regard to the text.

I criticized everything; the gaudy writing style, the murky delivery, the lack of context, the needless parentheticals and roundabout allusions to rhetorical questions, the blatantly subjective language, etc. Each time I pointed out one of these things, I emulated it in my response. When I took him to task for needless parentheticals (like this one) I used them myself.

*shrug* Seemed funny at the time.

I was playful (ala references to HE-Man and shots to the genitals) but sincere in my critique, all the while believing that I wasn't pointing out anything that my teacher wouldn't have already noticed herself.

She collected our response papers at the start of class and made a neat pile of them on her desk. Her laptop featured Nyan Cat. Any doubts I had about including a He-Man reference melted away. We began discussing the forward in class, our papers now safely in her possession.

"I hope you guys enjoyed the reading. Tom Shippey [author of the forward] is one of my favorite academics.  You might say I have an academic crush on him. Like... a huge one."

$#&*%.

I tried desperately to remember what I'd written. Suddenly, even the mildest of the jabs that I'd included seemed sinister and personal. I swallowed once and kept my cool. The only way I could weather this was by owning what I wrote. I planned right then and there to reread what I'd written once I got home in case I needed to defend it at some point. It was harsh, true, but I believed in it and wouldn't allow myself to be put into a position where I would have to apologize for it.

I agonized over the paper for a day or so, just long enough for the thought of it to be buried under more present and pressing issues.

Today, unexpectedly, she'd brought the papers with her to class - graded. At the end of the 90 minute class, she casually announced that she was handing them back, pulling them from her bag like a stack of indictments. The other students flocked to her desk, each reaching out to take their paper in turn.

"Sean?" *snatch*

"Dave?" *grab*

"Sarah?" *yoink*

Instead of waiting for my name, I packed my things and prepared to leave. By this point, I'd convinced myself that I wasn't getting anything higher than a "C". My justifications and defenses welled like dragons breath in the back of my throat. I was ready for her. I was ready for anything.

"Drew?"

I walked over to her and casually took the paper from her hand, like a receipt. Like a used newspaper. Like a letter meant for someone else.

I glanced at the top.

Without a word, I walked out of class, casually, as one who had seen it coming. 

Under Careful Advisement

Day 11: I arrived on campus a little early and warmed myself with a coffee and read my email in the Student Union. 15 minutes before Spanish, I grabbed a breakfast sandwich, turned up my collar, and walked out into the cold to my first class.

The two classes I had today dragged on. Spanish was a carnival of bad accents. Statistics was... statistics. I ended up sitting next to the same kid with headphones as before. He spent the first half the class rocking back and forth, singing under his breath, sort of taking notes. The second half, he abandoned note taking entirely and started texting. 10 minutes before class ended, he packed up his stuff and started fidgeting. I considered telling him that he was free to leave whenever he wanted, but decided against it, opting to see just how long he would last.

I give him 3 weeks.

After class, I made my way over to the CLAS house to once again meet with an adviser. The receptionist directed me to an office and I walked in, coming face to face with my new adviser. She had been out sick for some time and, though she'd returned to work, she was still struggling. On reflex, I reached out to shake her hand. She barked a series of horse coughs into a handful of napkins and apologized.

I slowly withdrew my hand.

On one of the walls of her office, she had a large poster with about 15 The Far Side comics. I stood there reading them, laughing unselfconsciously. She swiped at her nose and mouth with a fresh set of tissues and smiled. I smiled back.

We spent a great deal of time discussing coursework; what was left of my core requirements, how best to to take advantage of what was being offered, potential summer and winter classes, etc. All the courses I was taking this semester were the courses she would have suggested I start with.

As a joke, she suggested a class in Animal Science.

"It'd be a small class with about 10 people. You'd basically learn about and take care of dairy cows," she said.

I leaned back a little in my seat, grinning. "I know my way around a dairy farm."

She raised an eyebrow. "Where are you from?"

"Hartford."

I didn't explain myself further. She didn't ask.

At the end of the meeting, we had sketched out a plan for the remainder of my coursework and I felt that much more confident. I thanked her repeatedly, packed me things and stood to leave. The urge to stick out my hand was strong but I resisted. She seemed to sense my hesitation.

"I'm not contagious," she said, coughing.

"I believe you," I said, and backed towards the door.

I waited until I was back at the Student Union before washing my hands.

Swiped

Day 10: I was robbed.

Somehow, someone cloned a copy of my debit card and used it to purchase a mess of gift cards from a Target in New Jersey.

While at an event on campus, I got an email informing me of the unusual spending. I called immediately. After confirming my identity, the woman told me she would be canceling my card. I hardly ever use cash and didn't have any on me at the time. Canceling my card would make things tricky. I told her so, adding "The purchases were made from a city two and a half hours from here. I've already proven who I am. I can just as easily prove where I am. Can you just give me a few to find an ATM?"

Short answer: No.

Saturday morning, I made my way to the bank and got a temporary debit card. The woman I spoke with reviewed my account with me and said the problem would be easier to fix because I am  a practical spender. It was an unusual compliment and I wasn't entirely sure what it meant.

"Thanks," I said. Mostly because I have manners.

Even with the temporary debit card, I used my emergency credit card for the rest of the weekend, cringing at every swipe. I had to keep reminding myself that this is one of the reasons why I have a credit card in the first place, but, still, I cringed.

Tank of gas: cringe
Wiper blades: cringe
D.P. Dough: cringe
Assorted Superbowl Snacks: cringe
Emergency Late-Night Taco Bell run: cringe

By Monday, only half of the charges had been returned to me. The rest were still pending. Apparently, even though they knew I hadn't made the purchase, they had to wait until the charges 'posted' to my account. Which, for me, meant that I was out of that money until at least then.

In the end, it was determined that, most likely, I had been a victim of credit card skimming. I'd heard of it before but felt no need to be vigilant. Monday morning, I stopped at the campus book store to grab some headphones (ever the practical spender that I am). I hesitated when the gentleman at the checkout asked me to scan my card. He smiled at me in a plain and absent way, his teeth resting behind his lips like tombstones. I looked at the scanner trying to detect something sinister or unusual, not knowing at all what to look for.

"Just swipe you card right there, sir!" he said, his grin melting like soft serve.

I took a deep breath and swiped my card.

Pair of headphones: cringe

Pointers

Day 9: Earlier in the week, I scheduled an appointment with the assistant director of the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences (CLAS). The plan was to review my transcript to get a better idea of where I stand so as to better plan a path to graduation. I had a look at my unofficial transcript before the meeting just to have an idea of what I'd be working with.

It wasn't pretty.

My eyes scanned over an alphabet soup of near and outright failures. It was painful. And embarrassing. And frustrating. I remembered all the bad choices and missed opportunities and felt a rush of guilt and regret. I read and reread my transcript, as if subsequent reading would somehow change my grades or, at least, make me feel better.

I wanted to apologize to someone, but had only wronged myself.

And, as easy as it would be to hang my failure on personal problems, it would do me no good to say, "I was wrestling with some pretty big life issues at the time" or anything to that effect. The grades were what they were, regardless of how I came by them. It didn't matter how I got into this hole. It mattered how I was going to climb out.

I went in to the meeting discouraged and embarrassed in advance.

"This isn't nearly as bad as you think."

He was reviewing my transcript, reading and rereading it as I had, only with a completely different look on his face. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was smiling. I misread his expression as sarcasm and shifted uncomfortably in my seat, unamused.

Over the next hour, he very calmly and patiently put things into perspective. In the end, it turned out that I was not nearly as bad off as I thought I was. In fact, I was in pretty good shape. As we reviewed my transcript together, I found myself wondering what it was that I had been looking at before.

To be sure, I do have some work to do, but not NEARLY as much as I first thought. In fact, so long as I do well from now on, I'll be in good shape to graduate with a decent GPA (which would put me in decent shape for grad school).

So. Hooray!

I drove home feeling especially encouraged. Maybe I was being too hard on myself. Up until now, I was expecting a much more difficult fight. All it took was an informed outsider's perspective to show that, perhaps, I'm not as far behind as I though.

If I'm being totally honest, I anticipated graduating dragging my wheezing bleeding GPA behind me. I figured that, no matter how well I did, I'd be in for the fight of my life. But maybe I was wrong.

Maybe this whole adventure isn't as impossible and hopeless as I first believed.

Root

Day 8: This morning, I woke up to 60 degree weather and firemen just outside my door. Last night's rain and high winds had destroyed a transformer across the street. I walked out to my car and saw the road was blocked with cones and caution tape, and a lone burly fireman stood in the middle of the street in introspective repose. 

"Wow. Hello there," I said. 

"Hello there!" came a chorus of voices to my right. There were six other firemen that were just out of view. One of them waved. 


Thursday was off to a great start.

I showed up early to Spanish to make up a quiz that I missed thanks to the near miss I had on Tuesday. I had no idea what would be on the quiz and had no idea if I was prepared or not. I sat down and took a deep breath, opting to trust in the work and study I had already put in. I finished the quiz in less than 10 minutes, and turned it in before I could second guess myself. 

Maybe half of the kids showed up to class today. The time eked by as we took turns massacring the language. Halfway through class, our Spanish teacher abandoned correcting our pronunciations. Ten minutes before class ended, she reminded us that we still have until February 4th to drop the class without getting a "W". She was looking directly at one student in particular when she said this, the same student who managed to work "pantalones" or "bicicleta" into conversation in some transitively vulgar and childish way. We were already two weeks in and he was running out of ideas, but persisted with the idiot determination of a frat boy repeatedly trying and failing to crush a beer can on his forehead. 

I couldn't help but root for him.

In Statistics, the crowd was also unexpectedly thin. Whereas on the first day, I struggled to find a seat, today I had absolutely no problem. I could have sat right up front if I wanted. I felt a great disturbance in the class, as if millions GPAs cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.

...or something like that.

The kid to my right whistled to himself and texted for the duration of the class. Twice, I looked over at him in an effort to get his attention. Both times, he continued texting and whistling. I finally whispered, "I'm pretty sure all of this is going to be on the exam." He jumped, as if he'd been caught with his hand in a cookie jar, and went to take his notebook from his backpack. Once it was on the table, he leaned back, put in headphones, and starting singing under his breath.

Good for him.

As class drew to a close, I got an email from my Spanish class. My quiz grade had been posted online. It took everything I had to focus in for the last 3 minutes of class.

Walking toward the Student Union, I checked my quiz grade on my tablet.

Score: 105

I nailed it.

I cheered and celebrated with Wendy's.

Afterward, I had a look around parts of the Student Union that were entirely new to me, including the Rainbow Center, The Women's Center, The African American Cultural Center [AACC], and a fairly swanky game room. The AACC was especially warm and welcoming. Also they have a piano. Two of them. I can see myself spending a lot of time there.

On the way to my car, I checked my quiz grade one more time, just to be sure.

Score: 105

I smiled all the way home.