I once saw a movie with that premise. It was cheesy and foolish, but I liked that it was so old — maybe 1930s? maybe the 40s? — and had the mom taking care of her own wants and deciding to go off to college despite the objections of her college-aged daughter. A little forward-thinking, that. (Ok, not too forward-thinking, of course. If memory serves, the mom falls for a prof and ends her school career in holy matrimony. Feh.)
In school here, I feel as if I’ve got the lead role in the 2008 remake of this film. I am so very much older than nearly every other person in the school — students and staff. All of my classmates last week were under 25, and I’m guessing Andrés is about 30. Infants all.
It doesn’t matter. I’m here, after all, to study Spanish, not to hang out or hook up. But there’s this meet-you-on-the-quad-after-class feel here that makes me remember regularly just how much older I am than my schoolmates. (Ok, just the fact that I said ‘schoolmates’ adds about 89 years to my age, doesn’t it?)
Again, it hardly matters … but it must matter or I wouldn’t be going on about it, wouldn’t notice it so acutely. And I know I don’t look my age, but I definitely feel my age when I’m at the school. And maybe that’s the problem, the thing that’s got me fussing. I’m used to feeling as young as anyone in the room (you know, except for my students, who are all practically still in diapers), and something about being here has taken that away from me. So I feel a little … I don’t know … naked … exposed somehow.
Yeah, talk about needing to put on my big girl pants and just get over myself. I’m trying. I’m trying …