You know how some people have that embarrassing dream—of showing up somewhere in their underwear? Well I’ve always been the opposite. My perpetual dream is that I will show up somewhere important and I’m the only one not in her underwear because apparently I didn’t get the memo.
I don’t know why my sensibilities have been mixed up this way. But when someone (who told me I absolutely did not have permission to retell the story) told me that they found themselves in a this-only-happens-on-TV situation sans clothing—as in not a stich—I thought, and said out loud, “Why couldn’t that have happened to me?”
I don’t have a higher embarrassment threshold, but I think somewhere in me these kinds of incidents seem to say, “At least, you’re alive.”
I reflected on what I accept and reject in terms of embarrassment recently as I approached my college graduation. Yes. My college graduation. Despite a successful journalism career, I hadn’t finished my bachelor’s degree. In fact, 17 years ago, I accepted my first reporter position thinking that I’d finish my last six classes “on the side.”
Of course, then there was another reporting position and another. And yes, life got in the way. SIX classes and not a moment to complete them in nearly 20 years.
Despite what I’ve accomplished, this unfinished business was one of the biggest, most embarrassing skeletons in my closet. Instead of being proud of what I did accomplish, I was embarrassed at what I hadn’t yet accomplished.
So I finally did it.
And with kids approaching college themselves, my husband talked me into actually participating in the graduation ceremony. So I did that in order to show my kids the importance of finishing what you start and to emphasize that college is mandatory in my house.
I did pick up a few new tricks going back to J-School after 20 years in the business. I learned about multimedia and data reporting. I also learned that if you tell your classmates that the Internet was barely around when you first started college they will look at you like you’re a freak.
My study buddies also had the same look when I suggested that we all meet at the bar to finish the project we were working on. I realized later that it’s because most of them are only 20.
I learned it’s not easy to blend in. I took a running class, because I’m a runner, and I thought it would be an easy A. When we had to pair up I paired up with other experienced runners, because I’m pretty fast. What I didn’t know then was a runner who is 19 or 20-something isn’t the same thing as a runner who is 40-something.
But it wasn’t all awkwardness. Going to class several days a week gave me a tiny bit of—dare I say it—joy. It was a short reprieve from the demands of housework, kids, the husband, and my business clients. I selfishly relished those few hours I had to be at school. Suddenly there was a feeling of purpose that a never ending, and constantly replenishing, sink full of dishes stripped away from me. I was feeling a sense of accomplishment that was totally mine.
It was a good thing too, because some days I felt like a complete joke. Walking around campus I was keenly aware of how many years had passed. The students looked different, the teachers looked younger. And in many cases, they were younger than me even. In one class we discussed 9/11 and most of the students were too young to remember it, let alone have visited the Twin Towers before the attacks, like I had. And once, when I had to say my age in class, before I could finish my sentence a huge gasp rose up from the room as several students let their jaws drop to the ground. It was awkward. Maybe 40 was old to them, but I also chose to accept it as maybe I look good for my age and they were shocked to hear my true age.
When things got hard at school, I looked to my personal heroes for inspiration. They had done it before me and through worse circumstances. So the phrase, “If they can do it, so can I,” became my mantra. I also learned that my husband—the man who gifted me with the family, and house, and dog, and all the things I love but need to temporarily escape from—is my biggest cheerleader, taking the crown from the one person who has previously been my most shamelessly unabashed cheerleader: me.
I also learned that you should never experiment with hair color two days before you are to become the oldest graduate at the ceremony. My hair turned out red. Fire engine red. Red like the color of the lipstick the girl your mama warned you about wears. And red will always attract cameras. And so, I’m in way too many photos and news footage than I care to be; snapping my gum with my head on fire. (Oh yeah, I learned chewing gum is a good substitute for nerves but then you look like a cow in all those pictures.) And boy did I stand out.
That sort of summed up this final leg of college for me though. Too often I felt out of place and self-aware, that is, when I wasn’t feeling pride and satisfaction. I wondered if those students next to me will take their accomplishment for granted or carry with them the same sense of relief I feel now at having that done.
When I went to pick up my cap and gown a few days before the ceremony, the young man behind the counter looked at me and asked, “Are you faculty?” It’s a fair question. And of course, I was embarrassed. But through this I’ve learned that I no longer have to be embarrassed. I was no longer someone carrying unfinished business. I was finishing what I had started. “No. Actually I’m a student,” I said. “So you’re graduating in three days?” he asked still sounding surprised. I took a deep breath and allowed myself to puff out my chest a bit. “Yes. I finally did it,” I said.
Editor Shelly Cone learned the hard way to never leave anything unfinished. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Dec 24-31, 2015.