Back to School

My son and I start school on the same day. He’s seven and pretty laissez-faire about the whole thing. Me? I’m a wreck; thank you for asking. First of all, it’s been a while since I was in school (if your definition of “a while” is sixteen years, then we’re in business. Then if you add the four years in college that I didn’t take any math classes because I went to an “arts” school, well, you figure it out.) I was perfectly fine until my sister asked if I would be bringing a spiral notebook and pen to my first night of classes for note taking. Well, yeah, duh, what else would I—oh, right, a laptop. Wups.

So now I’m in panic mode. What else will I learn the hard way? That they’ve done away with desks? That graduate school is now conducted on yoga mats and professors twitter their lessons to a room full of students wearing ear buds? Will I be the only person facing the teacher and do they still raise hands? I’m only half joking.

To add insult to injury, I am concurrently studying to take the GRE test. You’re thinking to yourself, “But you must have taken the GRE ages ago, didn’t you?” Now, why would someone-- whom on her graduation day, threw her mortarboard into the air with the greatest abandon because she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she would never step foot in a classroom again as long as she lived-- have taken the GRE test? Well, I’m taking it now.

Why? Because I need to pass it in order to transfer my pre-admit earned credits towards my masters degree. Why? Because I need a masters degree to get the job that will jump start the first day of the rest of my life in my brand new career. Why? Because I can’t return to my former career because I was out of that particular industry for too long and there’s no going back there, trust me. Why? Because I chose to stay home and raise my son and now I’m divorced and missed the career juggernaut that was my supposed destiny and—let’s be honest—alimony is a much shorter stick than it used to be in the good ole days and the judge told me to git back to work. It’s as clichéd a story as the day is long. And now it’s my reality. Say, “Cheese.” Here’s your new student ID.

At graduate school orientation, my fellow incoming classmates and I were treated to four hours of back-to-back seminars on everything from how to use the library (things have, um, changed) to campus health services (cool. free stuff.) The campus shrink did a little twenty-five minute stand-up routine on how to relieve the pressures of balancing one’s current adult life with the coming demands of our scholastic workload. I listened, smugly, thinking that this was one area that I had nailed down. Time management? Bring it. Multi-tasking? Feh. I can multi-task with both hands tied behind my back.

Then she asked the auditorium full of three hundred or so students-- dragooned to be there on one of the last gorgeous, sunny Saturdays of the summer-- for a show of hands as to how many students graduated in June. Thirty or so hands went up. Then she asked, “How many people haven’t been to school in two to four years?” More hands. “And now,” she continued, slowing down, her voice laced with a circus side-show drum roll, “how many of you haven’t been to school in five to eight years?” My smugness let out a whimper.

I watched as people swiveled around in their seats to catch glimpses of the poor saps who hadn’t used vast portions of their algebra-computing, paper-writing, homework-doing, pop-quiz-taking minds in eons. But no one looked at me because she’d stopped at eight years and so I never got to raise my hand. I thought of hopping up onto my chair, waving and shouting, “Hey, Lady! Keep going!” but decided against it.

When I returned home, deflated, crestfallen and certain there was no way I was going to get through this, there was already an email in my inbox from the graduate school head of campus activities. Seems I’d been invited to try out for the cheerleading team. Excellent. Things were looking up.

Mister Lobster Man

My mom said, "Honey would you mind,
run and errand for me, would you be so kind?"
We'll need a coupla lobsters to fill the pot
'Cause butter, bread and Jersey corn is all we got.

So I grabbed my keys and got into my car,
Drove to Point Lobster, didn't have to go far
I couldn't decline, although I was kinda busy
Thank goodness I din't, 'cause what I saw made me dizzy

*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Lobster Man,
If you can't do it no one can
Haul those overalls over here
I'll drop my guard if you drop your gear

The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***

He had to work, no, he just couldn’t leave
So I paid him and left and I must say I grieved
Driving home I fantasized about what might have been,
Dropped the lobsters off with Mom and then went for a swim

There up at the beach on the lifeguard stand,
Sat a dazzling, tanned specimen of a man
A wave sent kids squealing which made him smile
My ‘magination had me reeling, so I said with some guile

*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Lifeguard Guy,
Please don’t think me crazy, I’m really quite shy
I hope that what I have to say won’t make you bristle
Just jump down off your chair and put down that whistle

The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***

His shift wasn’t over, he graciously tried to tell me
Something about keeping watch over all the swimmers’ safety
But I had stopped listening, was looking past his shoulders
At the fella on the surfboard who seemed a little older

He paddled towards the break then stood up with such ease
He took the wave so easily, perhaps if I said please
He could teach me how to surf, he could give me a start
And I could ride a killer wave right into his heart

*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Surfer Dude,
I sure don’t mean to come off rude
But is there more to you than your board and this beach?
Come on, climb out of that ocean to within my reach

The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Whadayasay we get outta this place?
***

Mister Surfer Dude said he had no job
And he sure did like Jersey corn-on-the-cob,
So he picked up his board, all dripping wet
And he followed me home to his one sure bet

He said he liked lobster, was polite to my Mom
And after dinner helped us move a couch, he was so strong
We hugged and kissed right into the night
And then I looked at him in the full moon light (and thought)

*** (Chorus)
Hey there, Mister Surfer Dude,
You sure are polite, not the least bit crude
And who’d have thought you’re a PHD
Teaching physics on sabbatical at MIT

The gods have gently kissed you,
A-don-is wishes he were you
There outta be a law against your face
Thanks for coming over to my place

Yeah, thanks for coming over to my place.
***