Rhymes with macadamia

Yesterday evening I began classes that could, should I choose to accept this mission, lead to a graduate degree.

I must admit I've taken an ad hoc approach to this enterprise. (I hadn’t set up my school-sponsored email address; I didn’t even know where to park; and once I arrived I realized that I had mentally switcherooed the two classes I’m taking, and had gotten myself revved up for Advanced Nonfiction Writing when the class I was attending was, in fact, English Studies: Content, Methods, Bibliography.)

Since Noah started working day shift, I haven’t felt an inkling of dread, until yesterday. I coped by ignoring the “Holy cow I’m about to reenter Academia and I just ordered my books like two days ago” nay-sayer-ness and instead directed most of my pre-class alarm to my tried-and-true avenue for panic: driving anxiety.

I convinced myself that the swell of fear threatening to o’ertake me had everything to do with my lack of familiarity with the area, and nothing to do with my uncharacteristic and complete lack of preparedness. So, gentleman that he is, Noah did not instruct me to put on my big girl panties and just go, but instead arranged for his Dad to babysit so he could chauffeur me to school. Like a parent. With a kindergartener. I did not however have the traditional first-day-of-school trying-to-supress-my-fright portrait made outside the building.

That’s on the agenda for tonight.