Struggles of an Aging Coed

Struggles of an Aging Coed

           I was perhaps not the oldest college student in the world, but I may have come close. When I could finally afford to matriculate, my two children were almost ready for higher education themselves.

As I toiled down the lonely road of education with my fresh-cheeked, youthful fellow students, my age led to many well-intentioned but juvenile comments and instructors who were almost young enough to be my kids. These situations often led to downright silly goings-on.

Perhaps most memorable were some of the statements I endured. Certain conversations with several dewy-cheeked cohorts kept my sense of humor well-honed.

           One chilly autumn semester, I forced myself to attend the first day of speech class.

At this point, I feel compelled to add some back story about my fear of being in front of people. It goes way back. Junior High is a time of many crucibles. Teachers loved assigning book reports in my day. I have nothing against books, but I loathe the report part.

Once, I stood up to speak and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth from sheer terror. Another time, I froze and could remember absolutely nothing. Yet for another assignment, I went to the front of the class and looked out at the sea of eyeballs. A horrible epiphany about my outfit paralyzed my brain. I had worn my black stockings, and they made my legs look fat. Oh, the agony....

Anyway, fast forward to college and the terrible, awful, no good, very bad speech class.

I had dreaded this moment for months. The very thought of having to speak in front of large groups of people changes me into a large, unstable pat of butter which melts into a miserable puddle. Please! Couldn’t I simply endure a colonoscopy? Or maybe a trip to the dentist? But alas, no. There it was on my list. Speech is required. So it was either give up my goal of a degree, or to sacrifice myself to this Monster.

           I skulked into the auditorium seat on the first day of class. A perky young blonde with a large pink bow in her hair whirled into the seat beside me. She was chattering away in my general direction. She turned to me, looked closely and stopped in mid-sentence.

”Oh …You’re an adult.”

           This revelation shocked her so much that she never finished her bubbly commentary, so I was denied any further bits of youthful wisdom she had to impart. If only I could have worn a pink bow or a perky pony tail , perhaps she would not have shunned me that day.

           Later that semester, however she had recovered her shock sufficiently to take me aside and enlighten me regarding her philosophy of adults and college.

           “Since you don’t have much going on in your life, this is all a lot easier for you.” She said this in all her pretty sincerity.

           Maybe she was referring to the fact that she had to juggle her studies with boyfriends, and sorority meetings, and I didn’t have to deal with those pressures. I felt too depressed to even argue with the logic.

           That same sort of thinking came up one day in algebra class. I was struggling with compound interest problems. An equally dejected young lady on my right suddenly heaved a great sigh of exasperation.

           She turned toward me and said, “This is easier for you than it is for me because you’re a grown-up, and grown-ups have to go to the bank all the time. I know because of my mom and dad.”

           All I could manage in the way of a reply was a sympathetic nod of my grown-up head. It would have been futile to argue. True, I did find myself at the bank sometimes. Usually, though, I was there merely for the mundane purpose of withdrawing badly needed funds. Happily, an occasion had never arisen in which a bank teller had forced me to work complicated algebra problems.

           Besides the youthful philosophy my advanced age often incurred, I have also entered several classrooms where my age exceeded that of the teacher.

           This first occurred with my beloved biology instructor, Miss Bones. One unforgettable day in lab, a group of us unfortunates reeled above a large and grotesque tub of pig entrails. I was trying very hard to hold my breath against the smell and not pass out. Miss Bones, however, was in her element. She enlightened us concerning the myriad mysteries of swine guts as she held up various bloody, slippery body parts from the reeking vat.

           Then came a brief lull in the riveting lecture. She was having some difficulty cutting loose a pig fetus for our examination. From the hall, a young man rushed into the classroom and ran up to the green-faced group. He paused, spotted me, walked over and began ranting away concerning a problem that only a biology teacher would know how to solve. Miss Bones stepped forward and took the matter in hand.

           After the young man had left, much convivial guffawing followed. Miss Bones slapped me on the back in high good humor.

           “Don’t you just love it when they think you’re the teacher?”

           This was not to be my last encounter with youthful science instructors, however. Next came Mr. Quartz, geology instructor. I blame what happened during that course on my advanced age.

The energetic Mr. Quartz believed that mountain climbing represented an important skill that every geology student should master as a part of her relentless quest for the ever-elusive fossil.

On a bright, crisp Saturday morning, I found myself at the bottom of an escarpment, the only “adult” student among a large group of bright-eyed, eager teenagers.

 One by one, we toiled upward. I puffed along, doing rather well until that one very steep embankment. Try as I might, I kept sliding back farther than I could manage to climb. 

After several unsuccessful attempts, the ever-undaunted Mr. Quartz organized a massive group effort on my behalf. Several classmates from above yanked my arms from screaming shoulder sockets, while from below, others pushed on my ample posterior. This scene from my past reflects neither beauty nor dignity.

I did make it to the top of the hill that day and went on to graduate. And although some of my classmates insisted my path was easier than theirs, I did derive all kinds of benefits from their emerging young lives. Along with my degree, I learned the joy of laughing with people of all ages.

And if I had it to do all over again…

I’d take the “hard” route and go to college right after high school.