I'm a bit of a thrift store junkie; if you read this silly blog regularly, you know that already, because I mentioned it here, and here, and here... (I really do lead a normal life, I swear to you—I don't just hang out at resale shops and scan the craigslist page.)
Anyway, I like to shop secondhand. A few years back, I was searching for a replacement sweatshirt to take the place of ol' Esprit. Ol' Esprit was a baggy, grey, mostly-cotton-blend that I had worn happily for years. It was loose in all the right places, had a snug enough neck to actually provide warmth and coverage, and was the perfect neutral shade so it matched nearly everything I own. However, as often happens to favorites, Esprit began to show serious signs of love. When the seams started to split and I could no longer leave the house in it for fear of being jailed for vagrancy, I knew it had to go. I wore it when painting for awhile, but knew all along I needed a shirt to step into Esprit's shoes.
Enter the nearby Goodwill store, which in addition to its convenient location, also accepts debit cards for any amount, no matter how small. I went there to find my new sweatshirt love. I wore a T-shirt, so the try-on procedure would be simple, could be done even without a dressing room (in case they were filled), and would replicate new sweatshirt's most common wearing scenario: over a T. I found lots of options, but only one fit the bill perfectly—the fit was ideal, boxy and wide but not too long; the bottom band was not tight at all, thus permitting free movement and requiring no tugging. Best of all, the arms were not too long! This must have been a true woman's sweathshirt; all the men's versions are always designed for gorillas, or at least it looks that way on me with my short limbs. The only problem with the grey sweatshirt was that it sported a lovely Harvard Business School logo in the top left corner. The logo colors were nice and subtle, dark maroon and navy, and other than that I loved the shirt. So, I purchased it and decided it would not matter that it had writing on it, which I normally shun. (Writing should be on paper. Or a monitor.)
I brought the shirt home, washed it, and have worn it all over the place since that day. But the funny thing is that the Harvard thing gets a lot of attention. I've had a number of people ask me if I went to Harvard. Of course I tell them the truth: "Oh, yes, Muffy and I roomed together and I graduated Summa Cum Laude..." Okay, I tell them the real truth, which is no, I've never even set food in the state, let alone on Harvard's campus. And most people seem to be either happy about it (I'm not such a big shot after all) or disappointed to learn I'm a fraud.
The last person to ask was the chubby, curly-haired young guy working the deli at the nearby grocery. He was a friendly fellow, and I was the only one waiting for cold cuts, so he felt unhurried and entitled to chat. "You said a half-pound, right?" I nodded. He went on: "Did you go to Harvard?"
"No, I bought this at a thrift store."
He was one of the disappointed ones, perhaps looking to meet that one Ivy League person walking around the Shop 'n Save. "Yeah, I guess if you'd been there, you wouldn't be shopping here."
"Well, maybe I would be. Those people have to eat, too," I replied. He handed me the package and we parted ways.
But I thought about it. What are the chances of my meeting a Harvard grad of any kind in my local deli? Would I be buying ham off the bone somewhere in the North Hills of Pittsburgh if I'd walked the halls of Harvard Business School? I only know one person who went to Harvard, and I don't know if she actually attended the school—only that she was accepted. And if she is studying there, will she come back to Pittsburgh to practice whatever she's practicing, or will she likely flock to a bigger, more citified city? If she does live here, will she choose a simple, very affordable neighborhood in the 'burbs, or purchase some mansion nowhere near me? Will she shop for lunch meat, or send a minion? Or are we all really pretty much the same, even the very bright and well educated?
One has to wonder.
P.S. I'm wearing the shirt today. Inside out. I like to get double my money.
P.P.S. This one's starting to look pretty ratty, too... Short-armed sweatshirt donations will be shamelessly accepted.
Showing posts with label college. Show all posts
Showing posts with label college. Show all posts
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Stupid human tricks
Ahhhh, youth.
Foolish youthfulness.
The very silly state that led me, some 20 years ago, to stand teetering on the edge of a bridge, looking down in doubt and trepidation.
No worries, it's not the way it sounds. I dated an ass through most of my college years, but he never drove me to jumping, truly. I'll start at the very beginning--a very good place to start, if I recall correctly the lyrics of a certain song.
Around 20 years ago, I found myself spending a blissful summer in the small, sleepy town of my undergrad alma mater. I had an apartment that I needed to hold for one more school year, and I had a part-time, work-study job that would morph into almost full-time if I wanted to keep working for June, July, and August.
I did want that. I wanted so much to spend my last carefree summer, that pivotal season between my junior and senior years of college, relaxing and seeing friends and reading novels in my own shabby little backyard. The apartment would just be sitting there anyway. I hadn't any really promising aspects of jobs elsewhere. And it was my last chance, as I saw it, to really kick back and just enjoy life. The pressure was not yet on, but it would be soon. This was a great, possibly final, opportunity to be a slacker student. And I wouldn't really even be a student, since I was the only one I knew who wouldn't be taking classes—I didn't need to. I would just work, and then I would play.
The center of all play time that summer, as it is every summer in that town, was the lovely river. It flowed slowly and gently through valley north of town, not even a mile down the hill from my humble rental. I could bike to it easily in 3 or 4 minutes. (Going up the hill afterward? Not so easy. Sigh.) A typical day looked like this: get up early, bike to work, work for most of the day, finish up mid-afternoon, bike home, take off work clothes and put on bathing suit and cutoffs, and scurry down the long slope with a soda and sunscreen in a little tote bag. Destination? The Rock.
As much as I rushed, I was never the first brown body to hit the Rock. This rock was huge, a slab of sandstone or shale or something native; it was impressed into and parallel with the slope of a hill leading down to the river's edge. The giant rock clung to the incline, embedded into it and yet still seeming to float upon the surface. It was relatively smooth and tilted at a navigable angle, not a perfect surface but quite serviceable for holding several blankets and towels and a bevy of young people. The more timid folks stayed near the top, where the rock was more flat; the braver souls traipsed further down, closer to the water's edge, where the slope of the thing became more steep and treacherous. Wrong steps here resulted in splashes and curses, scrapes on shins and the like. (I stayed near the top, unless I planned to sit on the edge and dangle feet in the water--always a bit nerve-wracking, since snakes also loved that spot.)
To reach this rock, however, you had to ride across a big, new bridge. The old bridge had been a converted railroad bridge, I believe, and was a giant black metal contraption; it had been dynamited into oblivion a year or two before this particular summer. Now, only the new bridge stood to accommodate all traffic, and the sides on it were low and concrete. The safety railings, if you could call them that, were concrete barriers not more than 3 1/2 feet high. The barriers didn't accomplish much if someone were driving out of control; in the short time I studied there, a beer truck careened off the thing and spilled its entire load into the dark waters. Students are probably still diving for the famed lost kegs to this day.
Anyway. When a couple of stupid kids, some of whom may or may not have imbibed a foamy substance, decide to jump from those concrete barriers, it's highly likely that other kids will see them and follow suit.
Normally, not me. I'm a wimp. I'm feeble. I'm the one who didn't even brave the steep lower part of the big rock, remember? And yet. It genuinely looked fun, watching those others fling themselves off the side. Every one of them came up fine. Most of them went into the water pretty cleanly, feet first, some with arms straight down and others with arms stretched overhead. They all made it look so appealing. And I wasn't tipsy, I was perfectly aware of what I was doing. I was tired of being feeble. By golly, I was going to jump off that bridge into the river.
I walked up to the road, began the long trip to the preferred (supposedly proven safe) jumping spot. Already, I was questioning my decision, my own sanity, the wisdom or lack thereof. But my feet kept taking steps, because others were watching now, and my image was on the line. I'd said to friends moments ago that I was going to jump; I honestly didn't have the nerve to turn around.
Then, I reached the spot. By now, I felt ill. I must have been temporarily insane to even think this deed. I couldn't do it. I simply could not. Yet, there I stood, and some others who were coming back for repeat jumps gave me a hand climbing up on the side. I balanced atop the concrete guardrail, looking down into that unforgiving green water, wondering what awaited beneath the surface. Tree roots that would catch my foot and not let go? A wrecked car or boat from years before, rusted into sharp, jagged edges that would tear my flesh? A nasty creature of some kind, slimy and hungry? Well, I knew that last fear was a bit unfounded, but still... it crossed my fear-addled mind.
I took a breath, listened to the others who'd made jumps as they advised me to keep my feet down, hold my nose if I didn't want a blast of river water in my head, and then--I jumped. I did it.
It took forever to reach the surface. The bridge can't be more than 30 feet above the water, but it felt like much more. I had time to ponder what the impact would feel like, to realize that my feet were trying to creep out to the side as I fell, to try to hold tighter to my nose, to wonder how ridiculous I looked in my clumsy descent...and then WHAM.
People, I wish I could say I entered the water with grace, like an arrow. I did not. I slapped the back side of one leg so hard I thought I would cry. I plunged down, down, deeper than I'd thought I would, and I dared to open my eyes and saw only murky yellowish water all around me. I had to kick up to the surface because I was running out of air. (My lung capacity stinks.) And then, eyes streaming, lungs anxious, I burst into sunshine and gasped a fresh breath.
One of the kids on the bridge must have heard the slap, and realized I was in pain. He asked me if I was okay. Of course, I covered effectively. I was fine, I said. And really, I was, when I considered all the things that might have happened to me, undertaking such a completely mindless attempt. I swam to the side, climbed out, returned to the rock sore but mildly triumphant. Of course, after all my bravery, my friends had become distracted and no one had even been watching my leap. Which was actually a relief, since it had been such a thing of ugliness. And the day went on just as if my act of stupidity had never happened.
Except for the gigantic blue-black bruise that formed on my leg, and stayed there for weeks before turning green, then yellow, then disappearing. I'm lucky I didn't do worse damage, in hindsight.
I never leapt from the bridge again. Not that bridge, nor any other. I've never again tried such a stunt.
I returned to that town a few years ago, drove past the rock and across the bridge, rolling alongside those concrete barriers. It didn't seem so scary at all, from a car; that bridge seemed quite friendly and low-slung. But I don't have to remind myself that the view is quite different when you're standing up on those sides, looking down. If I ever try that again, it'll likely be caused by a life-threatening thing ON the bridge, rushing toward me. I'm hoping that doesn't happen.
Foolish youthfulness.
The very silly state that led me, some 20 years ago, to stand teetering on the edge of a bridge, looking down in doubt and trepidation.
No worries, it's not the way it sounds. I dated an ass through most of my college years, but he never drove me to jumping, truly. I'll start at the very beginning--a very good place to start, if I recall correctly the lyrics of a certain song.
Around 20 years ago, I found myself spending a blissful summer in the small, sleepy town of my undergrad alma mater. I had an apartment that I needed to hold for one more school year, and I had a part-time, work-study job that would morph into almost full-time if I wanted to keep working for June, July, and August.
I did want that. I wanted so much to spend my last carefree summer, that pivotal season between my junior and senior years of college, relaxing and seeing friends and reading novels in my own shabby little backyard. The apartment would just be sitting there anyway. I hadn't any really promising aspects of jobs elsewhere. And it was my last chance, as I saw it, to really kick back and just enjoy life. The pressure was not yet on, but it would be soon. This was a great, possibly final, opportunity to be a slacker student. And I wouldn't really even be a student, since I was the only one I knew who wouldn't be taking classes—I didn't need to. I would just work, and then I would play.
The center of all play time that summer, as it is every summer in that town, was the lovely river. It flowed slowly and gently through valley north of town, not even a mile down the hill from my humble rental. I could bike to it easily in 3 or 4 minutes. (Going up the hill afterward? Not so easy. Sigh.) A typical day looked like this: get up early, bike to work, work for most of the day, finish up mid-afternoon, bike home, take off work clothes and put on bathing suit and cutoffs, and scurry down the long slope with a soda and sunscreen in a little tote bag. Destination? The Rock.
As much as I rushed, I was never the first brown body to hit the Rock. This rock was huge, a slab of sandstone or shale or something native; it was impressed into and parallel with the slope of a hill leading down to the river's edge. The giant rock clung to the incline, embedded into it and yet still seeming to float upon the surface. It was relatively smooth and tilted at a navigable angle, not a perfect surface but quite serviceable for holding several blankets and towels and a bevy of young people. The more timid folks stayed near the top, where the rock was more flat; the braver souls traipsed further down, closer to the water's edge, where the slope of the thing became more steep and treacherous. Wrong steps here resulted in splashes and curses, scrapes on shins and the like. (I stayed near the top, unless I planned to sit on the edge and dangle feet in the water--always a bit nerve-wracking, since snakes also loved that spot.)
To reach this rock, however, you had to ride across a big, new bridge. The old bridge had been a converted railroad bridge, I believe, and was a giant black metal contraption; it had been dynamited into oblivion a year or two before this particular summer. Now, only the new bridge stood to accommodate all traffic, and the sides on it were low and concrete. The safety railings, if you could call them that, were concrete barriers not more than 3 1/2 feet high. The barriers didn't accomplish much if someone were driving out of control; in the short time I studied there, a beer truck careened off the thing and spilled its entire load into the dark waters. Students are probably still diving for the famed lost kegs to this day.
Anyway. When a couple of stupid kids, some of whom may or may not have imbibed a foamy substance, decide to jump from those concrete barriers, it's highly likely that other kids will see them and follow suit.
Normally, not me. I'm a wimp. I'm feeble. I'm the one who didn't even brave the steep lower part of the big rock, remember? And yet. It genuinely looked fun, watching those others fling themselves off the side. Every one of them came up fine. Most of them went into the water pretty cleanly, feet first, some with arms straight down and others with arms stretched overhead. They all made it look so appealing. And I wasn't tipsy, I was perfectly aware of what I was doing. I was tired of being feeble. By golly, I was going to jump off that bridge into the river.
I walked up to the road, began the long trip to the preferred (supposedly proven safe) jumping spot. Already, I was questioning my decision, my own sanity, the wisdom or lack thereof. But my feet kept taking steps, because others were watching now, and my image was on the line. I'd said to friends moments ago that I was going to jump; I honestly didn't have the nerve to turn around.
Then, I reached the spot. By now, I felt ill. I must have been temporarily insane to even think this deed. I couldn't do it. I simply could not. Yet, there I stood, and some others who were coming back for repeat jumps gave me a hand climbing up on the side. I balanced atop the concrete guardrail, looking down into that unforgiving green water, wondering what awaited beneath the surface. Tree roots that would catch my foot and not let go? A wrecked car or boat from years before, rusted into sharp, jagged edges that would tear my flesh? A nasty creature of some kind, slimy and hungry? Well, I knew that last fear was a bit unfounded, but still... it crossed my fear-addled mind.
I took a breath, listened to the others who'd made jumps as they advised me to keep my feet down, hold my nose if I didn't want a blast of river water in my head, and then--I jumped. I did it.
It took forever to reach the surface. The bridge can't be more than 30 feet above the water, but it felt like much more. I had time to ponder what the impact would feel like, to realize that my feet were trying to creep out to the side as I fell, to try to hold tighter to my nose, to wonder how ridiculous I looked in my clumsy descent...and then WHAM.
People, I wish I could say I entered the water with grace, like an arrow. I did not. I slapped the back side of one leg so hard I thought I would cry. I plunged down, down, deeper than I'd thought I would, and I dared to open my eyes and saw only murky yellowish water all around me. I had to kick up to the surface because I was running out of air. (My lung capacity stinks.) And then, eyes streaming, lungs anxious, I burst into sunshine and gasped a fresh breath.
One of the kids on the bridge must have heard the slap, and realized I was in pain. He asked me if I was okay. Of course, I covered effectively. I was fine, I said. And really, I was, when I considered all the things that might have happened to me, undertaking such a completely mindless attempt. I swam to the side, climbed out, returned to the rock sore but mildly triumphant. Of course, after all my bravery, my friends had become distracted and no one had even been watching my leap. Which was actually a relief, since it had been such a thing of ugliness. And the day went on just as if my act of stupidity had never happened.
Except for the gigantic blue-black bruise that formed on my leg, and stayed there for weeks before turning green, then yellow, then disappearing. I'm lucky I didn't do worse damage, in hindsight.
I never leapt from the bridge again. Not that bridge, nor any other. I've never again tried such a stunt.
I returned to that town a few years ago, drove past the rock and across the bridge, rolling alongside those concrete barriers. It didn't seem so scary at all, from a car; that bridge seemed quite friendly and low-slung. But I don't have to remind myself that the view is quite different when you're standing up on those sides, looking down. If I ever try that again, it'll likely be caused by a life-threatening thing ON the bridge, rushing toward me. I'm hoping that doesn't happen.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
A little story about Sue
Sometimes, in my day-to-day life, I feel pretty isolated from the rest of the world. I feel out of touch. I wonder what everyone else [who isn’t home with a 4-year-old] is doing. I think of how hard it would be to suddenly find myself in an office setting again, or back in classes pursuing some end, feeling so rusty and old-fashioned and—well, mentally mushy. If it happens, I’ll deal with it. But I’m certainly not seeking it out, any of it. I know well enough when I’m out of my league.
And then I think of Sue.
I was a young upstart of a girl yet, a junior in college but an absolute twit in pretty much every way. I thought I knew everything, and also thought I should let everyone know exactly what I knew. (However, as is common, I resented those same characteristics in anyone else.) I was a secondary ed major, and as such, I found myself in several classes with a woman named Sue; she was also majoring in education, specializing in science.
Sue was no young girl. She was a single mom of 3 young kids. She had very short, choppy, home-dyed blonde hair, thick glasses, she was slightly heavy-set, she was unfashionable, she talked too fast and too much… and she was a tutor in the on-campus office where I also worked. I saw her regularly at work. I met her kids more than once (she occasionally had to drag the slightly scruffy crew to the office with her), I heard her stories about her no-account ex-husband and how he’d abandoned them… Several times, I was subjected to various stories about how she’d tried to make ends meet when he left, no money for the gas bill, heating the house (and sometimes the family’s meals) with the kerosene heater that sat in the living room, scraping together some clothes for the children to wear to school, etc.
And in classes? Yep, I saw her there too. I couldn’t escape. She’d be up front, talking to the prof well after class start time, hogging his attention. Sometimes I could tell that even the professors were a tad weary of her and her boundless enthusiasm. Because she was enthusiastic. Many of the students she tutored began sessions with a doubtful look, and emerged after several meetings with thanks, praise, and better grades. She could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of teaching, let alone hanging out in a lab all day. She was on fire. She really, really wanted to work, to learn, to teach others, to support herself and her family—she wanted to taste the firm, sweet success she’d been flirting with since getting her life on track.
At the end of my time at that office, Sue was graduating; after two years of watching her work her a** off, I held a grudging admiration and mild fondness for her. She’d done quite well, had multiple job offers from out of state. She never looked back; she pondered which job to take (aloud, to anyone who’d listen), she took a couple of road trips with the kids to try out the possible new locations, and then she snapped up a teaching position in Virginia and was happily planning to take her beloved children and start anew come August. I’m sure she did just that, although I didn’t hear the details; we didn’t keep in touch.
What I failed to fully appreciate then was that Sue was a survivor—and a mom. Now, being a mom myself, I begin to grasp the depth of the struggle that she dealt with every day. I try to imagine how hard it must have been to be strong not just for herself but for those kids while she cooked canned food over a kerosene heater, to pull herself up out of that miserable hole, to get enrolled, to find childcare when needed, to deal with a sick son or daughter when she had classes, to make ends meet. I’m pretty sure she had help in grants or such; I also believe she was taking loans in order to finish the program. Yet, she was determined, and bright, and indefatigable. She was going to make it. She was going to get herself and her family out of there and into the sun.
I wonder where she is today. I hope she is still in the sun. The kids would be mostly grown by now, and hopefully following in their mom’s (not dad’s) footsteps. I hope that if I’m ever in her shoes, I’ll be as upstanding an example of how to handle challenges and go on with head held high. I hope I’m as strong a mom for my son. I hope that my worst offense is taking too much of the professor’s time. The poor woman! I understand better now; she was just seeking approval. Encouragement. She only wanted someone to listen, to hear her thoughts, to appreciate the incredible effort she was making. To be validated. To be vindicated. I feel unseen and unheard sometimes, but I suspect my boo-hoo invisibility couldn’t hold a candle to Sue’s in her darkest days.
Here’s to you, Sue. You’re an inspiration, even now, almost 20 years later.
And then I think of Sue.
I was a young upstart of a girl yet, a junior in college but an absolute twit in pretty much every way. I thought I knew everything, and also thought I should let everyone know exactly what I knew. (However, as is common, I resented those same characteristics in anyone else.) I was a secondary ed major, and as such, I found myself in several classes with a woman named Sue; she was also majoring in education, specializing in science.
Sue was no young girl. She was a single mom of 3 young kids. She had very short, choppy, home-dyed blonde hair, thick glasses, she was slightly heavy-set, she was unfashionable, she talked too fast and too much… and she was a tutor in the on-campus office where I also worked. I saw her regularly at work. I met her kids more than once (she occasionally had to drag the slightly scruffy crew to the office with her), I heard her stories about her no-account ex-husband and how he’d abandoned them… Several times, I was subjected to various stories about how she’d tried to make ends meet when he left, no money for the gas bill, heating the house (and sometimes the family’s meals) with the kerosene heater that sat in the living room, scraping together some clothes for the children to wear to school, etc.
And in classes? Yep, I saw her there too. I couldn’t escape. She’d be up front, talking to the prof well after class start time, hogging his attention. Sometimes I could tell that even the professors were a tad weary of her and her boundless enthusiasm. Because she was enthusiastic. Many of the students she tutored began sessions with a doubtful look, and emerged after several meetings with thanks, praise, and better grades. She could hardly contain her excitement at the thought of teaching, let alone hanging out in a lab all day. She was on fire. She really, really wanted to work, to learn, to teach others, to support herself and her family—she wanted to taste the firm, sweet success she’d been flirting with since getting her life on track.
At the end of my time at that office, Sue was graduating; after two years of watching her work her a** off, I held a grudging admiration and mild fondness for her. She’d done quite well, had multiple job offers from out of state. She never looked back; she pondered which job to take (aloud, to anyone who’d listen), she took a couple of road trips with the kids to try out the possible new locations, and then she snapped up a teaching position in Virginia and was happily planning to take her beloved children and start anew come August. I’m sure she did just that, although I didn’t hear the details; we didn’t keep in touch.
What I failed to fully appreciate then was that Sue was a survivor—and a mom. Now, being a mom myself, I begin to grasp the depth of the struggle that she dealt with every day. I try to imagine how hard it must have been to be strong not just for herself but for those kids while she cooked canned food over a kerosene heater, to pull herself up out of that miserable hole, to get enrolled, to find childcare when needed, to deal with a sick son or daughter when she had classes, to make ends meet. I’m pretty sure she had help in grants or such; I also believe she was taking loans in order to finish the program. Yet, she was determined, and bright, and indefatigable. She was going to make it. She was going to get herself and her family out of there and into the sun.
I wonder where she is today. I hope she is still in the sun. The kids would be mostly grown by now, and hopefully following in their mom’s (not dad’s) footsteps. I hope that if I’m ever in her shoes, I’ll be as upstanding an example of how to handle challenges and go on with head held high. I hope I’m as strong a mom for my son. I hope that my worst offense is taking too much of the professor’s time. The poor woman! I understand better now; she was just seeking approval. Encouragement. She only wanted someone to listen, to hear her thoughts, to appreciate the incredible effort she was making. To be validated. To be vindicated. I feel unseen and unheard sometimes, but I suspect my boo-hoo invisibility couldn’t hold a candle to Sue’s in her darkest days.
Here’s to you, Sue. You’re an inspiration, even now, almost 20 years later.
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