Day the First.
They’re all so young. The entire classroom is filled with tattoos and piercings. Arriving late, I slide into a seat at the back of the classroom. The instructor continues down the attendance list. Hearing my name, I wave, weakly.
Oh, God, no. Personal anecdotes on the first day? The stories that rise in my conscious mind date to the previous century. Nothing within the experience of these younglings. I’m not certain that I speak the same language. My story told, I glance around the room. Slight signs of recognition. Wait, there’s another woman closer to my age—well, younger than I but definitely older than the others. She avoids my eyes. Why is she here? Is she picking up her academic career left behind when she started a family? Or is she like me, on a journey of self-exploration?
Run to the bookstore for the required texts. I’ve forgotten the crowds, the lines, the unexpectedly high cost of knowledge. The cashier rings up my purchase. $60 for a slim paperback volume. Shock registers. And so the adventure begins.