Annoying non-trad
Shortly before this semester began, Jam Kat informed me I would soon officially be an annoying non-trad. "Annoying non-trad? What's that?" I asked. "An annoying non-traditional student," she replied. "You know, the older ladies who sit at the front of the class and ask lots of annoying questions." What? That could NEVER be me, I naively asserted. I'm not THAT old, and I'm still cool and hip, right?
Oh, how wrong I was. More than a month into the semester, and there I am, sitting near the front of the class and asking annoying questions. Except for in biology lab, where I sit at the back of the class because I'm perpetually tardy. Even from that vantage point I can't help "contributing" to the lectures. It's so hard not to answer my instructor's questions when A) I know the answers and B) the rest of the class is mute while said instructor patiently waits for someone -- anyone -- to break the silence. I like my instructor, and I figure it might make his job easier if I go ahead and answer the question after a reasonable time has passed. But then I think, "Oh hell, there I go again, being an annoying non-trad." Sigh. Today I experimented with keeping my mouth shut, and let me tell you, it was pure torture.
In many ways this going-back-for-another-degree thing has made me feel younger. Despite the chronic insomnia, I feel more awake and curious than I have in, oh, four years or so. Even longer than that, maybe.
Still, certain chronological age-affirming situations have cropped up. I can handle being mistaken for a graduate student -- I *am* pushing 30, after all. But being mistaken for a professor? NOT COOL. It's happened more than once, much to my consternation. And tonight my math professor, while referring to a murder case from the 1970s, turned to me and said, "Surely YOU remember this, don't you?" WHAT THE HELL? No, sir, I do NOT remember it. I was 2 when it happened, damn it. I don't wear pant suits and pumps, and I don't carry a briefcase, so what gives?
Seriously, guys, do I really look that old? I came home and carefully examined my face looking for wrinkles or gray hairs that might have escaped my attention. None! I saw none! I have wrinkles, but to my knowledge they're only conspicuous when I smile. Is this sheer denial talking? Right now I'm feeling a mad desire to shotgun a beer and prank call someone, just to prove I'm NOT OLD!
And on that note, I'll leave you with this photo -- taken just a couple of years ago, thankyouverymuch -- of the beer bong my brother David helped me make for dear ex-coworker Doris. Chris, I hope you don't mind sharing cyberspace with this scary little rant of mine.
