So in the midst of taking solace in my parents’ soothing words of advice and smokin’ fine swiss steak cutlets, I noticed that my dad seems to allude to a lot of things I haven’t really disclosed. Example?
“So, are you going to write more Haikus? You seem to have a knack for them.”
“I really don’t understand half the things you say, but it’s nonetheless funny.” [Well, that’s nothing new. 40 percent of the things I say are rubbish anyway.]
“Is GirlyGirl going to….”
WOAH. Now wait a second. Dad’s picking up on the catchphrases, he knows I’ve tried my hand at haiku…
They’re reading my Blog.
I really, really don’t have any reason to fret this, mainly because I stopped making inflammatory statements about them at age eighteen (A.K.A. The age of Discovering That Your Tuition and Future Well-Being Is In Their Palm; this is the Invisible Hand Adam Smith referred to!). And after a few Thanksgivings, a bit of a scare while I was living abroad, and a quick jaunt across the pond this past summer, we tight.
I must admit, though…my musings have brought about some therapy, not always intentionally. Early in this b-skool application process, mom and pop were a bit perplexed as to why I’d want to pay for more school, especially when I had a perfectly acceptable opportunity at ULAC to take the part-time plunge. Trying to squeeze out everything that’s gone into this decision — the countless nights I’ve stayed up an extra hour, staring at the ceiling, considering just how grand of an adventure it will be to make the financial/geographical sacrifice; the pages and pages of books I’ve marked, re-marked, and re-re-marked pertaining to social justice, etc. etc. — anyway, trying to capture all that would be about as difficult as trying to give birth to a Mexican Lime cactus.
How relieving it was, then, when a recent conversation surrounding my waitlist…uh, wait…brought this gem from momma: “Honey, don’t worry. I’ve read your blog and I understand more now. I understand why you’re okay with doing this, and we’re rooting for ya.”
I think it would be super sweet to bring my parents along to b-skool. Potlucks every other night, anyone? Don’t worry, mom’s already promised not to show off THIS game face all the time….just when you cross her.