Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations (25 page)

I went back to college at the top of Fall.
I
did very, very poorly in college the first time around, not because
the work was difficult, but because I had way too much freedom. I
didn't go to class eve
r,
and
I didn't withdraw either
,
so
my GPA is the absolute worst.
Thankfully, I got accepted to a
local community college. I'd heard it was a terrible school but I
didn't really care. I just need some credentials. I know I'm smart. I
know I work hard. But no employer really has any reason to believe
that if I don't have some kind of paper to back it up.
I realized
sometime this summer, quite suddenly, that I didn't want to live in
Mobile forever.
I don't want to live in America forever,
actually.
I always wanted to travel; so I decided I needed to
find a way to get a degree
, and
then
I'd have a better chance of landing a job abroad. I know
I have a long way to go with my terrible GPA but slow progress is
still progress.
Well...
When I went to register I found that
a schedule had already been produced for me. The class times were
terrible, but my grandmother offered to watch the kids so it was
okay. As long as I was in.
My first class was at 8 am and on the
first day the professor didn't show up until 9:30.
See, I'm under
the impression that if I'm paying for something then I'm getting
something in return. I don't appreciate paying someone to teach me
and driving across town for some idiot to la-dee-da in to class an
hour and a half late.
So...
I told him as much.
I'm not a
child. I'm not a 15-year-old; this is
not
high school.
This is college. I'm paying out-of-pocket because I
don't quality for any financial aid. I am paying the school for him
to
teach me
. That is his
job
.
Wel
l,
we eventually worked through that together, and I
did well in
his class. However, the kids were miserable at my grandma's house.
I
told them to suck it up. Means to an end and all that...
My other
class was a drafting class with a super mellow teacher. He was very
nice but unfortunately the school hadn't ordered the proper
textbooks. Because of the updates in the software we were supposed to
learn, the updated textbooks were absolutely essential. Because of a
miscommunication between the staff and the school, there were no old
textbooks available for us to use. So he did his best teaching us, on
a whiteboard, how to use a computer drafting program.
Most days,
defeated, he sent us home early.
While he was lovely, as a
person and as a teacher, I was constantly aware of the time and gas
wasted driving across town only to discover, day after day, that I
wasn't going to learn anything.
My third class....
That one
was in the evening and I paid CBL's oldest to come watch the kids. So
if I'm paying for a sitter
and
gas and for the class itself
the
last
thing I want to hear on the first day is:
“Okay
y'all, listen up. I don' wanna be here an' I know y'all don' neither.
E'rybody gon' git an A up in dis class because I hate gradin' papers.
All the tes' gon' be open book. Okay? Good.”
Everyone
else nodded with excitement that they got a “good”
teacher because apparently “good” means lazy as fuck and
insulting to my time.
Suck it up, Jess. Means to an end.
So
the first day started with her reading straight from the text.
Typical classroom stuff. Then, for some reason, she got on the
subject of chromosomes and she said – for real – that if
someone has a Y- chromosome they are a man, and if a woman has two Y
chromosomes then she is a lesbian. If a man has three X chromosomes
then he is gay.
She said this.
Honestly.
Like, she wasn't
being funny or ironic.
And all these twits in class start
laughing.

Then she tells a story about her “gay
ackin'” nephew and how her sister hugs him too much and it's
making him a sissy.
It's as this point that I realize this school
lives
down
to
its
reputation.
Then she makes us watch this psychotic
video of this ex-football player turned preacher barking aggressively
about how Beyoncé is famous because she doesn't eat or sleep.
She works hard toward her goals and that people are too lazy.
We
were asked to give our opinion on what the preacher said. I said that
while I understand that he is trying to motivate people, it's
unhealthy to encourage Americans to ignore their health and
well-being. Additionally, success does not look the same to everyone.
My version of success is not necessarily monetary and it's a good
thing everyone is different.
She told me I missed the
point.
Maybe so.
I sent her an email directly that evening
telling her that I was very uncomfortable with her discussion about
her nephew, and her many references to government checks and food
stamps as I was unsure what they had to do with psychology.
She
apologized for my being offended and said she was just trying to
lighten the mood.
I said okay.
After that day, however,
everyone got the notes she'd emailed the night before, but me.
I
was starting to think I'd made a huge mistake.
I called the
Counselor to see if I could change majors and, by extension, all my
classes. She said it was too late but after talking to me on the
phone decided I was worth some extra effort and string-pulling. It
was, apparently, merely hours from the end of the last day to
withdraw and get your money back. She called this and that office,
touted my AP English and ACT score. She was shocked at how things had
gone so far and “didn't wanna lose this one.” But alas,
her efforts were to no avail.
I could continue to pay for gas
and not learn anything. Even if I changed majors, two of the three
classes would not apply. Or I could withdraw and at least get my time
back.
I went to the office and withdrew. I did not get my money
back.
I just fucked it all up. Just
fucked over here and fucked over there.
Maybe I should have
stayed? I don't know.
I'm applying to different schools now and
I'll try again for next semester however this time I think I'll do
online classes only. I don't do well in a classroom
environment...obviously.
Reboot.
Again.

Amnesia

Even now, several years beyond my divorce,
I get hints from people I love about who I was before all of it
happened. Recovering from a dysfunctional relationship is like
recovering from amnesia.

Typically, while digging out of the bad marriage
mud pit, I wasn't particularly concerned with remembering who I am.

I was focused on creating who I
want
to
be.

But while visiting with Jenn and discussing how I
decide what to make for dinner she noted my enthusiasm:

“THAT'S
what you should write. You should write a
cookbook.
Food seems to be such a part of your story. You told me how you
learned to cook from being a latch-key kid. Then you could afford the
good stuff and you ate well. Then you were broke and had to figure
out how to satisfy that desire for artful food on a single-mom
budget. I never realized it until now!”

Yeah.

Food
was
a big part of my "story."
Food was my
thing
for a long, long time. The sensation was so
strange. It was like someone telling me who I was "before the
accident."
I feel so removed from myself sometimes. So much
of me got lost in the fire.

But instead of rummaging through the burning
ashes of what was a beautiful house and finding a photo album or a
treasured stuffed animal, I find personality traits and hobbies that
I used to possess but forgot to grab when I ran from the flames.

I used to love to cook. I really, really loved to
cook. I used to own ramekins and I used them regularly. I used them
to make coconut caramel crème brûlée until the
blowtorch I used to caramelize the sugar was used as a lighter for
lighting cigarettes and was left outside in the rain.

Then I couldn't make the things I wanted to make
anymore.

I had a cupcake business before cupcakes became
ubiquitous and trendy. But I had to stop the business because my ex
wanted to change careers and someone had to go get a "real job."

It's so distant.

The real tragedy of this sort of amnesia is that
I remember that cooking is something I used to enjoy. I remember
cooing at the Williams-Sonoma store window. I remember crying when I
unwrapped the immersion blender my sister bought me for Christmas. I
remember the sublime ecstasy I experienced when I ate my first Vosges
candy bar.

But, like any good amnesic soap opera saga, none
of that is part of who I am now. I don't love to cook anymore. It's
actually a chore. I do it because I want to feed my kids well and
develop their palates, but I'd always prefer
not
to. And it
hurts and confuses me a little. I don't know how something that used
to be such a huge part of my identity could turn to ash so quickly.

And people who knew me before talk to me as if
perfecting an authentic mole sauce is still something I am interested
in doing.

And it's just gone.

Delivery
You
wanna know why I haven't dated much since I got divorced?
Because
I am receiving so much love, all the time, from my friends and family
that I just don't need to.
I've been feeling pissy today with
all the college crap and I have two-thirds of a bottle of wine in my
belly, but just now the doorbell rang.
I opened it and there was
a bag of clothes and a note that said
"Jessica, you look
cold. Quick put this on!"
From Anonymous.

Inside the bag were some cute tops and
sweaters!
Shopping for myself is at the bottom of my priority
list so it's sort of always something I need. I
always
need
clothes.

And one of my lovely lady friends just blessed me
with some stuff and it is literally impossible for me to feel bad.

Man oh man, I've gathered some good ones over the
years.

Mask

“Turtle frown” and “super pout”
and “stank face”...

Even though I felt like I'd taken great strides
in finally allowing myself to be photographed, it was a blog reader
who pointed out that I'm still in hiding.

And so begins the next big dig...

I was at one of many random weekly social home
school engagements when I introduced myself to a woman who'd already
recognized me from my blog.

She and I and a few other moms chatted for about
a half an hour before the one who recognized me interrupted me:

“I
hope you don't mind me saying this, but you are really pretty."

I felt extremely flattered because just that
morning I had a mirror war in which I chastised myself for getting so
fat and for my favorite jeans not fitting and for my hair looking a
mess. I'd literally contemplated shaving it off that morning. For
real. She continued:

"But,
I gotta be honest. I hardly recognized you because you're always
making faces in your pictures. Like frowning and stuff. It really
doesn't do you justice."

She's right. I always make some stank face in my
pictures. “Stank face" is my "duck face" as it
were.

"Yeah," I answered, "but that's
just me being silly."

"Hmm,”
she peered at me, “I think it's you hiding."

WHO ARE YOU, WIZARD!?! STOP LOOKING INTO MY
SOUL!!!

It stung a bit but usually when something stings
it's because there is a little barb of truth.

What started as a compliment was now suddenly
making me really uncomfortable. Not because she was prying or that
small talk had suddenly turned into therapy. More because she was
right and it's one of those dinosaurs I wasn't ready to excavate yet.

I do have a bunch of issues with being perceived
as "pretty." I used to be concerned with and occupied with
being the most attractive girl and, really, it got me into a lot of
trouble. That was when I was young and dumb. I didn't primp, per se,
but I definitely wanted to be looked at.

Now I don't like to be looked at. I like to be
heard
.

When I was a pretty girl I was leered at and
preyed upon. I got attention from cute boys but when I think about
the creepy stares and lip smacks and cat calls from greasy old men,
starting as early as eleven and twelve years old, my blood boils.

Now I'm a loud girl and people listen to me.
People don't say "Jessica's so hot" anymore. People say
"Jessica's smart/funny/wise/childish/ridiculous/got some
issues/is abrasive." I like all of those over "pretty"
or "hot." "Pretty" and "hot" are not
character traits. They are symmetry and balance resulting from a
favorable round of genetic roulette. They really have nothing to do
with
me
.
Inside
.

When I was a pretty girl I thought I liked being
a pretty girl. Really, I'd just become a sexual object and just sort
of went with it. Attention was attention.

Then I got plump and people started listening to
me and noticing
me
and I realize I greatly prefer it. But now
I don't know how to be visible without feeling unsafe.

I just got punched in the face by my next big
Issue. I am
terrified
of being considered pretty because it
reminds me of being young and being taken advantage of and I don't
want to give anyone an excuse not to listen to me ever again.

There was an episode of Doctor Who where there
was a hotel and in each room was the occupants' biggest fear. Given
the stomach knots, heart palpitations and juicy eyeballs I'm
experiencing while trying to write this, I'd be willing to bet that
inside my room would be me at 130 pounds wearing a cute outfit and
with my hair done.
I know, intellectually, that as a full-grown
adult with boundaries and well-honed social skills I could keep
myself physically and emotionally safe. But being attractive is so
deeply hardwired to be associated with "danger" "trouble"
and "not being taken seriously" that I have a hard time
feeling favorably toward the possibility. Additionally, it
feels
like there is an either/or choice.