As previously mentioned, I am a nursing student. I stayed at home with my kids until
I was ready to shoot myself in the head my youngest started grade 1. So the same day that Terran stepped onto the bus for his first day of school, I walked down the halls of the prestigious institution which I attend ~wish this thing had a sarcasm button~ and stepped into my first class: Introduction to Sociology. I loved this class because the professor was fricken hot it expanded my mind, allowed me to see the world through new eyes, and made me realize some of the biases that I held about certain aspects of society. And the professor was fricken hot.
I entered the Faculty of Nursing in order to pursue my lifelong dream of becoming a labour and delivery nurse. Two years into the program, combined with my experience on the maternity ward slipping and sliding through placental remnants, has since convinced me that I would be better suited behind a desk calling out: “Number 21… is 21 here? It’s your turn to see the doctor.”
But being an actual nursing student is the best time I’ve had in… well, how old is my oldest?…14 years.
When I attended my first nursing course, Introduction to Nursing (clever, right) I looked up at all the young, pretty, twenty-something year old faces, and thought: Shit. I’m an old bag. This is gonna be awkward.
There I was with my mom-jeans, comfy lace-up running shoes, proper blouse buttoned up to the very top…
Are you buying any of this shit? I hope not. Don’t make me have to post my slutty pictures.
Nope. Au contraire, I walked in there, and yes, I was struck by how beautiful everyone was, and thought: I’m gonna fit in just fine. (Well this is a blog about narcissism, you don’t think I’m going to pass up the chance to toot my own horn, do ya?) Mind you, by the time midterm rolls around, the pretty young things have blue bags under their eyes, haven’t showered in days due to lack of time, and generally look like shit. While I, after four kids and 14 years of sleep deprivation have mastered the art of masking the tell-tale signs of exhaustion. And I shower.
University is way better than high school. There’s not that same rivalry between the girls as there was in high school. No cattiness. It’s pretty much one big lovefest. We spend a lot of time together. Help each other out with assignments. Study together. Practice giving needles on each other (wish I was kidding about that part). We are basically intellectual equals. Have the same interests: caring for sick people (only I don’t particularly like sick people, but I pretend that I do, so it’s all good). And unlike my high school days, now I’m married so it’s not like I’m going to sleep with their boyfriends.
Here’s the thing though: there are a few women my age in the faculty. Other women whose children are in school and they too have decided to pursue their dream. Women who have left other careers in order to try something new. These are probably the ladies I should be sitting with, talking about the new composting system that the city is trying to implement or the price of heating a 2000 square foot home, or property taxes, or even our kids.
But I don’t.
This is what I do…
I go see “Eclipse” twice with the pretty young things. And they make me a Team Edward tshirt. And say, “Let’s go see the movie a third time.” And I’m like, “Yeah!”
I don’t even realize that perhaps this behaviour isn’t age appropriate until my mother sees me, and says, “Are you wearing that to class?”
me: Yeah. It’s kind of for fun because Jen and I…
Mom: No, not the tshirt. Your shorts. Are you going to wear those to class?
me: My shorts? Why? Do you think I wear scrubs to class? I only wear scrubs when I’m in the hospital. I’m going for a lecture today though.
Mom: No, I know you wouldn’t wear your scrubs, but what about slacks or a skirt.
…slacks? I’m going to pretend that even I’m not old enough to remember those.
And a skirt? Skirts are only worn when I’m planning on flashing. That’s actually how I caught Wayne, le husband’s eye, 10 years ago: wore a skirt while I was weeding the garden. The skirt was pretty much hiked up around my waist, but hey, happily married for 7 years now. Never underestimate the power of panties. …anyway, I digress…
So yes, I wore the tshirt to school. And Jen, one of my best girlfriends, wore hers.
They say Team Edward and Team Jacob.
And I walked into class and proudly showed off my tshirt. And nobody looked at me like, “Whose the old crazy broad?” Instead the girls were hugging me and high-fiving me. Maybe it’s the kind of high-five you give to someone when they’re mentally challenged and you don’t know what to say or do, so you’re like, “High five!” and then hope they’ll go away.
But I don’t think so. I pretty much fit in. It’s like we’ve all forgotten I’m a grown up with a mortgage and kids for whom I am responsable. But when I’m with these girls, I’m a girl too. Actually, I’m pretty sure that mentally I’m like 16.
What happened to me? How come I got stuck in adolescence? It’s not like I was forced to grow up quickly; it’s not like my parents died tragically and I had to raise my 13 brothers and sisters so now I’m reliving my lost youth.
Nope. Not the case. I’m was the girl smoking pot under the bleachers before class. I was the girl at the parties sucking back copious amounts of beer through a funnel, then stumbling around drunkenly looking for my ex-boyfriend, the one I wanted to get back together with every time I drank copious amounts of liquor.
So, no. Good adolescence.
But it’s even better the second time around. And this time, when whip cream comes up in conversation, I can recommend the fat-free kind. Mind you, this is where the age difference comes in. For them, the whipcream serves kinky purposes.
Me, whipcream is used for strawberry shortcake.