Karma

As a young college student, I secretly made fun of the older women who seemed to appear in every core course I took. They must have needed the classes for their jobs or something. They certainly weren’t full-time students like the rest of us who lived on campus and ate at the cafeteria. They were no-nonsense, efficient, good-at-the-chit-chat kind of women, and you could count on them to make a beeline on the first day of class to the front row to claim their center seats. They’d set their floral-designed tote bags on the floor next to the legs of their chairs, place their cups of coffee on the desktop, and settle in for a full round of discussion with the professor. They completed their assignments thoroughly and on time, and reminded the prof to collect them at the end of class.

I have become one of those women.

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I enrolled in a college class this semester (I’m required to take a couple every few years to keep my teaching certificate current). When I have to pay HUNDREDS OF DOLLARS for a single course, you’re darn right I’m going to be sitting in the front row where I can see and hear the instructor. I’m not there to lounge in the back and text my boyfriend; I’m there to get my money’s worth. And, yes, I will make sure the teacher collects our homework, because a) I took the time out of my busy schedule to do it, and b) I'm planning on earning nothing less than an A in this course.

I signed up for a nonfiction writing class, not realizing it involves a workshop component. We must submit pieces for our peers to read and then to critique in writing and OUT LOUD. My turn to be critiqued is tonight. No worries, though, because I’m great with receiving criticism. Just ask my husband. And my kids. They’ll tell you how thick-skinned I am. Not sensitive at all, no sirree.

If you don’t hear from me for a couple of weeks, it’s because I’ve taken to my bed in a fugue state caused by depression at hearing my writing described as what? I can only imagine. “You write like a blogger."

. . . and now I’m off to pack my tote bag with my books and papers and highlighters and reading glasses, and prepare my coffee in my special thermos cup with its sippy lid.

Dinner last night: mac and cheese

Exactly one year ago:

Speaking of Tomboys . . .