Proof It's Never Too Late to Return to School

I’d been writing professionally for 20 years when I decided to go back to school at the age of 61. I was eager to hone my skills, learn some techniques and meet new people in my field. It never occurred to me that the other students in the graduate program would be straight out of college. We went around the room and introduced ourselves, noting our literary aspirations and writing credits. I was the only one old enough to have either. Yet, I was determined to blend in, chatting easily and laughing at the students’ comments I didn’t understand.

At the end of the class, the instructor made an announcement. There had been some street violence recently, and he recommended we walk to the parking area in groups. We packed up our things and filed out. I went into the restroom opposite the elevators and came to a dead stop in front of the mirror. I looked like I’d been electrocuted.

My hair appeared to have been spun by a tornado. It stood high and woolly on top of my head and lay flat as sod on the sides. A glob of black mascara had dislodged from my lashes and smeared into a swath of what looked like dirt across my cheek. On the side of one nostril, a wide, sooty smear darkened my nose.

At the elevator, a group of young women were gathered as I opened the restroom door.

Someone said, “That’s her.”

“Can we walk with you to the parking area? We’re afraid to walk alone.”

I smiled, but my heart was crying. I hadn’t blended into the student body at all. They had recognized me for what I am. A mother. In truth, I was honored to walk with them, but I also realized I had done myself a disservice. I had not presented myself in my best light. I had been careless with my appearance, something that highlighted my regular life as a suburban homemaker, wife, mother and writer. I could do better.

After that first class, I made more of an effort to fix myself up. I bought a Wonder Bra (don’t scoff, it helped). I wore cowboy boots and got a great haircut. And while it sounds superficial, I felt better about myself. I became part of the class. One of the gang. I blended in. Sort of.

On the last day of class, we had a party and everyone brought something. The guy with the ferret tossed an open, half-full bag of Oreos onto the party table. Another brought a six-pack of Coke, with one can missing. I brought a fruit platter, paper plates, napkins, serving tongs and wet wipes.

Someone laughed. You’re such a mom.

I am! I’m a mom with 25 new colleagues to call friends, a graduate degree to hang over my washing machine and a new attitude. That’s worth every ounce of effort.