We were at The Man’s allergy appointment today and I heard it again: “Aren’t you excited?”
I've learned to reply simply with an emphatic “YES.”
One of the sweetest
things about the prelude to this grand adventure is that everyone
whom we’ve told about it (Tally: Me = 3 people, The Man = 4,013,845 people, or everyone
in the state, not discounting those currently in comas) is so thrilled on my behalf. It’s how I imagine it must feel to be an
Olympic athlete the spring before the Games (ya know, if I could be one of those
Olympic athletes you see in yoga pants and slippers, drinking a Coke and
reading The Kite Runner on the porch
swing instead of, say, packing). Every
time someone hears me mumble, “I’m going to Oxford” the reaction is the same: “Wow!
That is so cool! (Or fleek, if they’re under 18.) Congratulations!”
Then they draw themselves up a little straighter and say one of two things: “Aren’t
you excited?” or “I’m really proud of
you.”
The “proud of me” comment
is not restricted to people who know me well, or to people who know me at all,
for that matter (like the poor grocery clerk The Man cornered last week); the “excited”
comment is always accompanied by a megawatt grin. With either one, it’s the standing-up-straighter
thing that gives it away: One of Us
is doing this. I thought Oxford was a place for Other People, but she is one of
Us.
I have become Everyman.
And here’s the deal: I am
20% excited, yes, but so far I am 80% just plain nervous. Dudes, a week and a
half ago I was cramming for final exams. Now my face is breaking out, my
fountain pen is dry, I can’t find my little teeny stapler and my hair looks
like I colored it in with a felt pen that started to dry out halfway up my head. In short, I am a bit more Everyman than I would
like to be. I feel I would better represent the team if I was a little bit
taller, a tad younger, better read and twice as smart. When I can forget about that,
yes, I am very excited. The library!
The books! The spires! The rivers! The library!!! At other times, though, there’s that
familiar, self-conscious undercurrent with which we’re all familiar: There are people who deserve this more than
I.
But you know, it’s not
all strangers in the grocery store. My kids are watching this. My kids are
watching a middle-aged woman work her hardest and achieve something that many
of Us would consider mere
daydream fodder. No, it’s not the Nobel Prize, and I’m not going to Mars, but –
people do win the Nobel Prize. People
will go to Mars. Just people. Like
you. Like me.
Tonight my two-year-old
grandson looked at me solemnly and said, “Gwamma, you going to school. You
gonna drive the airplane up inna sky.”
And by Jove, he’s right.
He’s a bright boy.
Takes after his Grandma.
