We Don't Take Kindly to Folks Like You 'Round Here

For as long as I can remember, my plan was to continue my higher learning through a Ph.D. in Spanish.  It’s been THE PLAN.  The whole point that the chapters of my life have been leading up to.  The big picture.  When we moved, the Golden Gates opened up, angels sang and my husband said “Why, love of my life, of course you can spend the next umpteen zillion years reading archaic literature in foreign languages.  Whatever makes you happy.”  (Actually, it was more like “What are you going to do with a Ph.D. in Spanish?  Kinda sounds wicked lame to me but if that’s what you want, go for it…”).  And that was it!  The starting gun fired and I took off in hot pursuit of Ph.D. programs.  

Turns out, it’s not that easy to find one.  You would think since we live in a place where SOOOOOOO many people speak Spanish, it would be a hot degree.  And, then you would be wrong.  And so was I.  There are only a few universities within 100 miles of our home that offer this level of degree in Spanish.  But, I found THE PROGRAM of my dreams.  It’s at a very prestigious school, but I am a nerd and think it is in the realm of possibilities to be accepted.  And, as my best friend’s mom told me “It’s not like they’re going to come knocking on your door, Tracy.  You need to put yourself out there and go after them.”  And I then began my new chapter: matriculation into this Ph.D. program. 

I once had a boss when I was in radio that told me I have high “WOO” (winning others over).   I figure I can pump up my WOO factor to 11, get in front of the department, knock them over with my enthusiasm, wit and fabulous shoes and get in. Easy as pie.  I carefully construct emails inquiring into the program and hit send.  I heard right away from the head of the department (WOO FACTOR, score 1) and set up our meeting.   I begged for a sitter, pulled out a great outfit from my pre-mom days, tried it on and immediately put it away because I no longer rock a pre-mom body.  I struck out with outfits 2-7 until I finally settled on a simple, classic look which was clearly going to impress.  Ok, so it was the only one that I didn’t look like a sausage in, but I digress. 

I took the first trepidatious steps in the journey toward my fate.  Oh my goodness – this is ACTUALLY going to happen!  I am going to inundate myself in classes, learning for the sake of learning – and only because I WANT TO, not because I need to for a job, a license or a parking ticket.   I wander through the labyrinth of the campus, taking in the awesomeness of it all. I breathed in the scent of old books, great knowledge and buzzing a little bit at the experience of someone in their 30’s as opposed to being a teenager and taking the experience for granted. 

The head of the department was impressed with my experiences, grades, and recommendations.  I believe that my Kate Spades were lost upon him, but I wasn't expecting much of a nod to fashion from a man wearing a tweed suit coat with elbow patches, a plaid shirt and some kind of crochet-looking tie thing.   He encouraged me to apply and perhaps take a few classes to get myself up to speed as it has been a few years since I took this style of class (my Master’s degree is in Education – not Spanish).  He took me downstairs to meet some of my fellow brethren in the pursuit of knowledge and that’s when the effervescence diminished. And by “diminished” I mean crashed, burned, and croaked.
 
I launch into the “Tracy-song-and-dance” performance of impressing them with how much I would totally fit into their department. But the strangest thing happened.  They gaped at me like I was a poisonous creature that may bite them, but they can’t look away from because I’m so fabulously strange. Honestly, I’m slightly shocked because WOO mode works on the staunchest of opponents.  And then, it happened.   I asked them how they wrote their Statements of Purpose for the application – you know, so I can get a leg up from the ones that beat the odds and got accepted into the Ivy Leagues.  I told them that I like to write with a humorous undertone (unspoken sentiment – to set myself apart from the drudgery that so many people write about how great and smart they are so accept them, blah, blah, blah…)  The head of the geek squad looked down at me past his tortoise rimmed spectacles and said “Humor?  I wouldn’t.  You wouldn’t seem…intelligent…or like you’re a serious scholar. Humor.  No. Not here. ” The fellow bobble heads all nodded in agreement.  And, with that, my degree dreams were shattered.

Not intelligent?  Not intelligent!  It wasn’t like I was starting my essay with "Knock-Knock.  Who's there? Orange. Orange who?  Orange you going to accept me into your program?"  This is funny, smart stuff I write!  Not intelligent, as if!  In fact, I think the best humor comes from really smart people.  Over the years I have collected funny friends like Ringling Brothers collected freaks (which is apparently where I belong according to the Ph.D. posse).   I began to disappear into myself awkwardly because if I can't use humor I don't know how to react.  I wear my humor like a giant scarf: hiding behind it when I’m nervous, pulling from it when things are uncomfortable, breaking the ice with new people or shouting it from the rooftops when I feel happy and want to share that feeling with the world.  I use it to discipline my children, because I think it’s more powerful than a spanking (and less likely to involve Child Protective Services).  Humor is as big of a part of me as my blue eyes, obsession with dark chocolate and fabulous heels.  Do I really want to dedicate the next years of my life to a bunch of people who think humor is beneath them? And, now I doubt they’ll accept me into this stupid, lame program.  I hate writing boring stuff almost as much as I hate reading boring stuff written by boring people!

I was crushed.  Empty.  This was WHAT I was supposed to do now that I’m all grown up and can actually do this.  And, now it was all gone.  I headed back home.  How am I going to explain to my kids that everything that I had dreamed was all a delusional nightmare?   Part of my job as a mom is to inspire my girls to be the absolute best they can be.  My husband does this on a daily basis.  He sets these unbelievably high goals for himself and constantly achieves them! Now, I don’t know who I am supposed to be – let alone how to teach the girls how to be awesome.

I arrive home in a fugue of depression and see my daughters outside riding their bikes.  Lena pulls into the driveway next to me and asks me how my meeting went.  Trying to hide my melancholy, I told her that sometimes life throws you an unexpected wrench and that you need to readjust how you look at things and move on.  Her response: “That’s why I always keep a pink boa in my bike basket.  You never know who you may see and you need to be prepared.” 

And, she’s right.   I don’t need a Ph.D. to raise great kids – which is really the most important job any person can have.  And, I certainly don’t want to spend time with unfunny people.  Life is too short for that.   Walt Whitman said “Re-examine what you have been told. Dismiss what insults your soul.”  Humor helps me deal with toddler meltdowns, sister arguments about the doll with the purple shirt and why they need to brush their teeth.  It helps me survive the twenty-fifth time that I have swept the floors, boo-boos that need Hello Kitty Band-Aids, and long weeks when my husband is crazy at work.  It keeps me afloat when I feel like the world is trying to beat me into submission.  The decision made itself:  Ivy League Spanish Ph.D. is dismissed – since working with people who don’t embrace humor insults my soul.  Humor stays.  Now it’s on to my next chapter: Using the application fee towards the pursuit of finding my boa.  Does anyone know if Burberry makes one?