Tuesday morning, the husband and I met with the admissions director at Goldie’s school to talk about her high school options when she graduates next year. I’m very Zen about the whole thing. Goldie’s smart, personable, and she’ll end up where she’s meant to be. I don’t know how we pay for any of it (with charm and good graces), but Goldie is a low-maintenance student with excellent grades, and I’m hardly the Great Santini. This laid back approach has been a blessing and a curse in my life. I don’t sweat a lot of the small stuff, but neither do I wring my hands over many important aspects of life. For Goldie’s sake, perhaps I should.
Don’t you remember being a teenager? Everything was the end of the world or the greatest thing ever. When I had my heart broken for the first time at age fourteen (or was it fifteen?), I thought I was going to die, literally. I thought I would cease breathing because no one could possibly cry that much and still have a pulse. So even though high school choices were mostly non-existent when I was in eighth grade, I can certainly remember what it was like to want something during those years and think the rest of my life would be forever altered – good or bad – depending on whether or not I got whatever ‘it’ was. Chemin de Fer jeans? I had to have them and no pair since has hugged my ass quite the same. When I did not receive the St. Genesius award as a high school senior (for theatre production and performance) even though I’m still convinced to this day I was the only one in my class who met the qualifications, I was devastated. In other words, Goldie has her heart set on going to a particular high school. That may change by December but wherever she sets her sights, I should pay attention and help where I can. It doesn’t matter that I know things work out regardless. What’s important to remember is that she doesn’t know. My Zen attitude is something that’s come with age, along with an ass that no pair of jeans could possibly lift to its former elevation. Goldie’s thirteen. She has to feel things herself.
On a completely different note, we went to see “The Avengers” this afternoon. While watching the movie, which I thoroughly enjoyed, I decided I wanted to be a superhero. Scarlett Johansson’s Black Widow is exactly the kind of woman I long to be – kicking ass and taking names. After the credits, we raced out to the minivan (a decidedly un-super vehicle) to head home so Miss T could get ready for soccer. In the car heading over to practice, there was a smell. “Did you find clean socks?” I asked Miss T. She hemmed and hawed, which meant ‘no’ and I grumbled, telling her I’d put the clean black pair on her bed yesterday and why wasn’t she wearing those? We got into a discussion – “I do the laundry so you’ll have clean clothes. I don’t want you wearing dirty socks, blah, blah, blah…” – and just like that, I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell I was every going to be a superhero. I do not have superhero problems. I have dirty sock problems.