I hated school. (At least, until graduate school. I went twice and would have stayed forever if they let me. But that is irrelevant to this discussion.)
I hated the first day of first grade and every day thereafter. I don’t know why. I was good at school. I didn’t work particularly hard but I got good grades, made good friends and generally had a good time. So, I am not quite sure why I couldn’t wait to get out. It wasn’t that I was anxious to be an adult. I don’t think I ever considered what that meant. Maybe I simply wanted to be a kid who didn’t have to waste her time thinking about the topics the school dictated. I was interested in a less intense lifestyle. So, I recall the thoughts I had in the third grade as I faced five more years of elementary school, four years of high school and four years of college. (We did not have a middle school or junior high.)
I’m in third grade now and next year will the last year of the first half of grade school. After that I’ll be in fifth grade and that means I’ve made it to the second half of grade school. After that, sixth is the last year of the first half of the second half . . . .
Got the picture? I figured out my high school and college graduation dates and then, finally, the only other inevitable date: death.
My eight-year-old self calculated the oldest I could ever expect to be and came up with the year I would die: 2022. I never forgot it. So, I found it somewhat ironic when on 3/16/2022 I found a lump in my breast that was quickly diagnosed as malignant. Ironic but not particularly worrisome since it was unlikely my cancer, if fatal, could kill me before the end of the year. Of course, that was before I realized that the treatment was likely to get me a long time before the disease could.
It is now December 26, 2022 and I have to survive for less than one week to prove my eight-year-old self wrong. She was wrong about a lot. I never am not currently nor have I ever been the US ambassador to France nor am I an internationally renowned home designer and architect. I think people who like school do those things.
Although I’ve remained blasé all year, now I am getting worried. I am not an alarmist. I don’t worry about car collisions, lightning strikes or monsters under the bed. Usually. But this next week will be different.
It isn’t that I believe in the psychic abilities of eight-year-old me. I believe in irony. And just in case, I want to get it on the record that she knew. That little eight-year-old girl, who turned out to be me, knew. Of course . . . .
Even though math was her best subject, anyone can make a mistake. She probably meant 2032. Yeah, that’s it. 2032.
Nonetheless, I think I’ll just stick around the house until 2023. Happy New Year. Hope to see you all next year.
© 2022 Jane Kelly
