It is never too late
So, Gary Trudeau has done it again... High stakes admissions essays and all that jazz (God I am glad that my services as satellite admissions officer were not called upon this year). And Idealist Savant was so kind to pass it along: Penn... home of my first experiences in molecular biology in my dad's graduate lab.
But here is the really funny part, a small person convinced me to bend to her desire for a happy meal (TM) (please don't flog me with a wet noodle, I don't usually feed her such vile garbage, but she begged and it seemed like a reasonable compromise since I have been telling her no, no, no in all other realms) Incidentally and totally unrelatedly in an effort to stay with the times they now offer "healthy alternatives" and she got a chocolate milk and apples instead of fries and a coke... anyway. that isn't the point. Not that there ever is one, but that was still not it.
So as some of you may have now ascertained, getting dressed is getting harder and harder, (sign of mild depression, why yes, I am fully aware.) but I threw on a long sleeved t-shirt rescued from one of the famous end-of-semester free piles in the Haffner halls that reads in lovely cursive letters "Bryn Mawr College 1885-1995 110 years of women on top" which is highly amusing to me for its cheekiness, but most people don't expect such brazen double-entendres from a reputable university of that caliber, and thusly fail to be titilated with the words that dance across one's bosom. Ah yes, so the woman in front of me, an older black woman says, in a fabulously East Coast accent, "Oh, Bryn Mawr, I spent a lot of time there, before you were even born." and I replied, "Well I was born there." "No, I meant, that I was there before you were born, " she clarifies. "No, I heard, but I was born there." "So you're a Main Line girl?" "No, I was just born there, my mom's doctor was at Penn, but he was at Bryn Mawr hospital that day, I guess. I grew up near Swarthmore." "I went to UPenn," the lady replies with a deep smile, I smile back, I feel at ease. "So you're from the East then?" "Boston," she replies, "I started at Penn but transferred to UC Davis to do vidiculture. That's what I wanted to do." "Yeah, I don't imagine that Penn was big on vidiculture." "That was back in 1955, especially not for women, a black woman to boot. But when I got here, I did an internship at (unnamed so as not to promote) vineyard and everybody acted like I had three heads. My advisor finally told me to give it up, he had hoped I would just get discouraged."
This made me sad, but I refrained from speaking, I let three people step in front of us in line just to keep listening to her story. "So I ended up studying urban studies..." she sighs, "But that was my passion, vidiculture... I see the young girls that are doing it now, there is a woman at Riddeau..." "Well," I begin, and she seems to see where I am going. "Honey, I'm 69," she laughs - she doesn't look more than 50, robust, beautiful dark skin, lustrous hair. "But," I insist, encouraging, "it is never too late." She smiles and reflects for a minute. "Maybe if I win the lottery, and start a business of my own," she muses. "It isn't too late," I repeat, "you don't have to give up the one thing you love." She stops and looks at me, really looks at me, "Thank you sweetie, for those words of wisdom and encouragement. You have a merry christmas and a wonderful new year." I feel as if I have been hugged by a stranger, I let another person pass by us in line before ordering for the nena. I watch her retreat with a bounce in her step.
And I truly believe that: it is never too late to find happiness, it is like letting yourself be loved, you just have to let yourself dream it.
But here is the really funny part, a small person convinced me to bend to her desire for a happy meal (TM) (please don't flog me with a wet noodle, I don't usually feed her such vile garbage, but she begged and it seemed like a reasonable compromise since I have been telling her no, no, no in all other realms) Incidentally and totally unrelatedly in an effort to stay with the times they now offer "healthy alternatives" and she got a chocolate milk and apples instead of fries and a coke... anyway. that isn't the point. Not that there ever is one, but that was still not it.
So as some of you may have now ascertained, getting dressed is getting harder and harder, (sign of mild depression, why yes, I am fully aware.) but I threw on a long sleeved t-shirt rescued from one of the famous end-of-semester free piles in the Haffner halls that reads in lovely cursive letters "Bryn Mawr College 1885-1995 110 years of women on top" which is highly amusing to me for its cheekiness, but most people don't expect such brazen double-entendres from a reputable university of that caliber, and thusly fail to be titilated with the words that dance across one's bosom. Ah yes, so the woman in front of me, an older black woman says, in a fabulously East Coast accent, "Oh, Bryn Mawr, I spent a lot of time there, before you were even born." and I replied, "Well I was born there." "No, I meant, that I was there before you were born, " she clarifies. "No, I heard, but I was born there." "So you're a Main Line girl?" "No, I was just born there, my mom's doctor was at Penn, but he was at Bryn Mawr hospital that day, I guess. I grew up near Swarthmore." "I went to UPenn," the lady replies with a deep smile, I smile back, I feel at ease. "So you're from the East then?" "Boston," she replies, "I started at Penn but transferred to UC Davis to do vidiculture. That's what I wanted to do." "Yeah, I don't imagine that Penn was big on vidiculture." "That was back in 1955, especially not for women, a black woman to boot. But when I got here, I did an internship at (unnamed so as not to promote) vineyard and everybody acted like I had three heads. My advisor finally told me to give it up, he had hoped I would just get discouraged."
This made me sad, but I refrained from speaking, I let three people step in front of us in line just to keep listening to her story. "So I ended up studying urban studies..." she sighs, "But that was my passion, vidiculture... I see the young girls that are doing it now, there is a woman at Riddeau..." "Well," I begin, and she seems to see where I am going. "Honey, I'm 69," she laughs - she doesn't look more than 50, robust, beautiful dark skin, lustrous hair. "But," I insist, encouraging, "it is never too late." She smiles and reflects for a minute. "Maybe if I win the lottery, and start a business of my own," she muses. "It isn't too late," I repeat, "you don't have to give up the one thing you love." She stops and looks at me, really looks at me, "Thank you sweetie, for those words of wisdom and encouragement. You have a merry christmas and a wonderful new year." I feel as if I have been hugged by a stranger, I let another person pass by us in line before ordering for the nena. I watch her retreat with a bounce in her step.
And I truly believe that: it is never too late to find happiness, it is like letting yourself be loved, you just have to let yourself dream it.
posted by ilana at 6:49 p.m.
2 Comments:
Amen, sista. Last night I went out with a DC friendster who seemed so pessimistic and bitter that it caught me off guard. Naturally, I won't be seeing him again. But it struck me that depressive, angry people are a dime a dozen, but those who are optimistic and full of light -- priceless.
I keep trying, baby, I keep trying. Sometimes shedding light on other people is the only way to give it back to ourselves.
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