When I was working at the spa part time, at a medical office full time, and looking for a different full time job (read: benefits, specified hours and an hourly rate) I got this question a lot. Why not just quit the 60 hour work week and work at the spa full time? After all, it's good money, right?
The answer was so loaded, I'd usually just tell people that I needed the benefits. That's not totally true, but definitely part of it. I've always wanted to express, in detail, why I never wanted to be in the position I'm in now. Do I regret it? Nope, because I might not be back in school if I hadn't done it. But we all know that things happen for a reason and all of this fell into place when it did because I was mentally unhealthy and on the verge of a breakdown. So while I'm thrilled to be "gainfully employed" and working 4-5 days a week, I'd still like to explain why working as a massage therapist on a full-time basis was never my dream.
1. It is financially unpredictable.
So yeah, I'm on the schedule 40 hours (sometimes more), but that doesn't mean the same thing it does to someone who makes $x.xx an hour. All it means to me is that I'm at the mercy of the public and THEIR bank accounts. I could have a full schedule and make enough, or I could have a spotty schedule and literally worry about how I'll pay the next month's bills. And when the economy isn't the greatest it's ever been, you literally don't know what the week will bring you. If people are broke that month, so are you. This job is ideal for someone who has a spouse or sig. other who works and brings home enough to keep the household stable. I've always been single and on my own, and it's just not consistent enough for someone like me.
2. I work when no one else does.
Being in the "service industry" means one thing: You have to be available to work when everyone else has the day off. Weekends? Every one of them. Holidays? All the time! That one Sunday a year to cater to Valentine's Day crowds? Yep. I don't get back-to-back days off, and I don't even remember what it's like to be off on a Saturday on a consistent basis. When you've been doing it for as many years as I have (6), you really start craving that normalcy of a 5-day, Monday thru Friday work week. What really grinds my gears is the holiday thing. Sorry, but I have a family too (even if they aren't a spouse and kids). And I don't see how a massage is an emergency on New Year's Day. We lucked out on the 4th this year-- she decided to close. Yes!! But that's not always the case, so you just hold your breath and hope to get out of working. They tell you when you're in school that you get to "set your own hours" because they want to make the career as appealing as possible. Truth is, that only works if you own your OWN BUSINESS, which doesn't seem to be incredibly profitable in the first place. Not in this area.
3. My body won't let me do this forever.
No matter where you work, you get paid based on productivity (if you will). Sometimes it's commission, sometimes it's hourly, sometimes it's by service. All spas are different, but if you're not rubbing on something naked, you're not making money. So naturally, you want to work. If I have a day that only one or two appointments land on my schedule, I'll eat Ramen for lunch knowing that I'm taking a hit that day. BUT this does not mean I want to be so loaded down with appointments that my joints don't work the next day. Most people don't realize how physically taxing the job really is! As of late, I had to write a formal letter stating what my limitations were per day. I just couldn't do it anymore. I was consistently being given more than my body could handle. If you don't say otherwise, they'll plop it right down on your schedule, assuming you're able to do it. My hips has been giving me hell (keeping Doc Limbaugh in business! Ha...), my feet are starting to bother me (runs in the family, although I hope mine is different) and my back is forever in knots. When I started, I was an overachiever. Now I just want to be able to come home and function enough to eat dinner and maybe fold a load of laundry. I can only handle so much before all I'm good for is 10 hours of sleep, and that's gotten old. Being "worked to death" has never felt so real as it does at the end of a 9 hour day when you've had 3 deep tissues.
4. I didn't want to be a statistic.
Did you know that the average burnout rate of a massage therapist is ONLY THREE YEARS?! So wait... lemme do the math..... carry the two.... that's not even long enough to pay of your student loan!!!! So now that I have doubled that number, I'm proud to say that I'm still in the game. I'm ashamed to admit, however, that my heart just isn't in it anymore. And this is what I wanted to avoid. When I came out of school I was fired up to do some massage-- I wanted to make a difference, one person at a time. I wanted to work in the medical field doing massage, helping people to overcome physical boundaries after injury or strain. That dream was quickly stomped upon when the first doctor who promised me a job completely turned his back on me, THEN I was forced to find out the hard way that us LMTs aren't welcome in the medical field because INSURANCE RARELY PAYS FOR IT. So naturally, no physical therapist is going to hire someone like me... no one will pay out of pocket for something like that. *sigh* Crap, now what? I went to work at the spa I currently work in because I just needed to make some money. Plain and simple, I had gone to school and had a student loan to pay off, and if I wasn't doing it I was wasting all that education. And I quickly realized that this was the only place nearby that I'd ever work doing massage.... and my medical dream slipped away. That's enough to make anyone cranky. This isn't what I dreamed about as I was going through school, and it's certainly not where I thought I'd land. Doing "spa work" was never my thing: I don't like to fluff, or scrub, or rub stones on people. I like to get in there and DO STUFF when there's stuff to be done. But whaddaya know.... I'm here. And now that I do 5 full bodies (and then some) everyday, I feel as though I'm just a programmed machine. Back, legs, FLIP, legs, feet, arms, neck, done. Next! I never wanted to feel this way about massage, but I do... and I seriously doubt that'll change because I'll ALWAYS work in a spa. Land of "I just wanna relax." Doh. Now it's just time to move on.
5. It's time to be an adult. I'm way late on that.
To me, an adult is one who is independent. It's fine to ask for help every now and then, but an adult has it under control a good majority of the time. This includes carrying benefits that allow you to plan for the future. Yet again, this job is good for someone with a spouse that AT LEAST has some health insurance... because this job just doesn't offer it. I know, I know... "Obamacare" blah blah. I don't know what will happen with that. All I know is that I'm uninsured and have absolutely no retirement in place. I started hitting the panic button about that a few years ago.... imagine how I feel about it now. I have irrational fears about being hurt and not being able to afford the healthcare I need. What's worse is that if I break a limb, I'm out of work for 6+ weeks. Aside from roller skating, I've been pretty cautious about everything for years now. My body is literally my money maker. No pressure, right?
What I CAN say is that massage has been good to me. It has been a second job when I needed the extra money, and it has gotten me away from an awful job that was nearly the end of me. It has paid the bills *most* months and has allowed for me to go back to school while still working. I've met some really amazing people, both in the biz and on my table, and I've learned incredible things from them along the way. I can't say for sure that I'll stop doing it once I'm finished with school-- who knows, I might be there part time forever! But full time definitely isn't my gig. That's why I have to continue pushing through dumb math classes and fear a tough application process. I have to take this gamble or I may never be a real adult...
Kids at the spa...
When I started this blog, I told myself I wouldn't rant and rave about my current job. This blog is about how I'm moving forward in my life and the steps involved in that. But I just can't help myself after the day I've had. And ya know... it's my blog. I do what I want!!
I will never understand why a parent would bring their child to the spa for any type of service, much less a massage. We have this "Princess" package where a little girl (13 and under) gets an upper body massage (30 mins.) and a manicure. The package is $45....
Maybe I'm a tight ass, but that seems like a lot of money for a kid who probably doesn't even care about being there.
When I say kid, I mean young. Of course the 11-13 year olds are stoked to do something like this. But today, I had to massage a seven year old. Seven. Crazy enough, she's not the youngest that I've ever worked on (5, in case you wondered), but she was just as bad about attention span. She fidgeted, sighed, squirmed and refused to let me work on her more than any other kid I've ever had. She had the balls to tell me what they "usually" do when she gets a massage (this clearly isn't her first rodeo), and acted like nothing I did was really good enough. I was using the pressure of a feather, mind you, when she told me that "it hurt" as she stiffened into a ball. I was aggravated, but when I tried to work on her shoulders, she quickly shoved them into her ears and completely shut me out. That was it. I was 5 minutes from the time allotted, but I couldn't do it anymore. I left and let her get dressed.
I'm led to believe that parents do this because it's "cute".... they take pictures and make wretched cooing noises the whole time they're in the spa. The mother today, who is a regular client at the spa, keeps her distance. But I can't help but think this is nothing more than entertainment for her. MOST CHILDREN who are in the spa do not need the service they're getting. Yes, there are some kids who could genuinely benefit from bodywork. Those are the same kids who allow for it. The little girl today might've known why she was at the spa, but definitely didn't know how to receive massage in a beneficial way. THIS MAKES MY JOB EXTRA HARD.... I end up petting the kid for 30 minutes, fighting with them (silently, as I beg them to relax enough to let me work) the whole time because they really don't feel comfortable laying there in the first place. I've even had a child ask "Are we done yet?" about halfway through the massage. They just don't have the attention span for it, y'all. (One little girl cried when the nail tech came to get her for her pedicure-- she had no idea what she was doing, why she was there, or who this strange person was trying to walk her down the hallway. True story.)
And really, what kid gets their nails painted and doesn't smudge them within 15 minutes?
I just don't get it. I've never seen kids in the way most people do: I don't get all gushy over them, and I definitely don't understand spending money on them for crap they don't benefit from. Put that money toward the summer fund to send them to the pool or to a theme park. Or better yet, buy them an educational toy, or let them join a club they're interested in. I can't complain about the spa having business... however people want to spend their money is up to them. But this is just something I'll never understand. My mom wouldn't have done anything like that for me. Maybe I'm just bitter because of that. :)
Home is where your stuff is.
As I would tell people about my plan to move, they'd all say something to the effect of, "Ugh, really? I could never do that." Or "You're going to hate that after living by yourself for so long." And yeah, I would tend to agree with them because it's just human nature. Who wants to move in with their parents at the ripe age of.... well, my age doesn't matter here.
I had a complete meltdown the night I wrote my last rent check out. I kept asking myself what I had done... why did I think this was a good idea? I really thought that moving day would result in a lot of tears and resistance. I don't like change, and I don't like giving up my independence. I prepared myself for a month or better... moving day would be a very hard day for me.
But when it was all said and done, there were no tears. No anxiety attacks or even mood swings. I will admit that I got a little emotional the day I went back to clean. That probably had more to do with the build up than anything. It was that release of "it's finally over" that got to me. I took a deep breath and took one last look around. I made a lot of memories there:
* I made a lot of friends while living there. I also lost quite a few. (What they say about leaving the world with a few good friends is true.)
* I had two serious relationships-- oddly enough, the first couple months that I lived there, and the last month I lived there. I've been single a lot, y'all.
* I let my inner chef out. I cooked... a lot.
* I drank a lot of wine with a lot of good people in that living room.
* I was equally entertained and disgusted by my neighbor and his "help" (someone get that man someone decent!).
* I had a lot of scares: storms, the sound of gunshot in the middle of the night (two times), local happenings that made me uneasy to stay alone, and a construction crew that may or may not have placed a nail under my pillow just to be jerks.
* I dealt with a water heater exploding (and "babysitting a bucket" for a couple days), a light globe falling from the ceiling and shattering into three rooms, and an air conditioning drain flooding down the hallway. The place needed some updating.
* I went through rough times with family. Thank goodness they're stuck with me, or this story might be ending differently.
* I dealt with a terrible job that I hated, every single day. I whined about it a lot, and the truth is... it almost destroyed me. Most people didn't understand (or bother trying) but we'll just say that it's a good thing I got out when I did. I can't say for sure that I'd be here to talk about it otherwise.
* I decided that unless I did something different in my life, I'd live in that apartment forever. Just spinning my wheels....
I opened the door, sobbing, and stepped outside. I turned around to lock the door, then put the key in the mailbox. I looked to my right and there were my "surprise" pumpkins.... yet again. I decided right then and there that they'd be coming with me. I wasn't going to let the next tenant mow over them, or even reap the benefits. I was instantly happier because I knew that I'd have every little thing from my apartment with me where I was going. Even the pumpkins would transplant with me.
It might sound materialistic, but I've just decided that HOME IS WHERE YOUR CRAP IS!! Nothing makes me feel more at home than my pictures... and my scrapbooks... and my cat. All of the things that I couldn't live without would be with me, and the rest would be in storage for later. The situation isn't perfect (we've talked about this before) but I can make do as long as I have my stuff. The stuff that makes up my life and makes me happy. Home is actually where you feel comfortable, but what makes me the most comfortable are the belongings that have made me.
I had a complete meltdown the night I wrote my last rent check out. I kept asking myself what I had done... why did I think this was a good idea? I really thought that moving day would result in a lot of tears and resistance. I don't like change, and I don't like giving up my independence. I prepared myself for a month or better... moving day would be a very hard day for me.
But when it was all said and done, there were no tears. No anxiety attacks or even mood swings. I will admit that I got a little emotional the day I went back to clean. That probably had more to do with the build up than anything. It was that release of "it's finally over" that got to me. I took a deep breath and took one last look around. I made a lot of memories there:
* I made a lot of friends while living there. I also lost quite a few. (What they say about leaving the world with a few good friends is true.)
* I had two serious relationships-- oddly enough, the first couple months that I lived there, and the last month I lived there. I've been single a lot, y'all.
* I let my inner chef out. I cooked... a lot.
* I drank a lot of wine with a lot of good people in that living room.
* I was equally entertained and disgusted by my neighbor and his "help" (someone get that man someone decent!).
* I had a lot of scares: storms, the sound of gunshot in the middle of the night (two times), local happenings that made me uneasy to stay alone, and a construction crew that may or may not have placed a nail under my pillow just to be jerks.
* I dealt with a water heater exploding (and "babysitting a bucket" for a couple days), a light globe falling from the ceiling and shattering into three rooms, and an air conditioning drain flooding down the hallway. The place needed some updating.
* I went through rough times with family. Thank goodness they're stuck with me, or this story might be ending differently.
* I dealt with a terrible job that I hated, every single day. I whined about it a lot, and the truth is... it almost destroyed me. Most people didn't understand (or bother trying) but we'll just say that it's a good thing I got out when I did. I can't say for sure that I'd be here to talk about it otherwise.
* I decided that unless I did something different in my life, I'd live in that apartment forever. Just spinning my wheels....
I opened the door, sobbing, and stepped outside. I turned around to lock the door, then put the key in the mailbox. I looked to my right and there were my "surprise" pumpkins.... yet again. I decided right then and there that they'd be coming with me. I wasn't going to let the next tenant mow over them, or even reap the benefits. I was instantly happier because I knew that I'd have every little thing from my apartment with me where I was going. Even the pumpkins would transplant with me.
It might sound materialistic, but I've just decided that HOME IS WHERE YOUR CRAP IS!! Nothing makes me feel more at home than my pictures... and my scrapbooks... and my cat. All of the things that I couldn't live without would be with me, and the rest would be in storage for later. The situation isn't perfect (we've talked about this before) but I can make do as long as I have my stuff. The stuff that makes up my life and makes me happy. Home is actually where you feel comfortable, but what makes me the most comfortable are the belongings that have made me.
The big move.
It's officially over. The move.
I moved.
Ta-da!!!
I can't say that I'm totally settled in, but I'm closer today than I was yesterday and I plan on making more progress later this week. I'm probably 90% there, if I had to be honest with myself.
The move itself was rough. Storms were in the forecast for the whole week, so I just rented a U-Haul. I don't have the best of luck when it comes to things, so this was just safer. And BY GOD, it was a good call! Thursday (the 30th) was the biggest moving day. It was the day I had my dad, mom and boyfriend to help. It was also the day we were placed under a tornado watch and had large storms headed straight for us. *sigh*
I got up at 7, got myself some breakfast and came to my parents' house to pick up my dad. We got the truck at 9, and just like clockwork, it started raining. The off and on thing would happen all day, with the biggest downpours hitting while we were at the storage unit... almost every time. At one point, all 4 of us were standing inside with all these boxes and furniture, just staring at the truck that was but a couple of feet away. What could you do? You just had to wait for it to let up. Did I mention that was the trip that the cat was being transported? Oh yeah, she was in the car. Talk about heart attack. The poor thing will never be the same. (She was even medicated for this special day.)
Roughly 12 hours after the huge undertaking (who knew I had that much crap?!), I gave up and went to bed. After all, I had to work the next morning. It was quite a day. Things in my life don't go as planned, but I think that's my hint to start being more flexible. And I was-- I made it work.
I really can't thank those who helped enough. Both of my parents were real troopers that day. My dad was still getting over a stomach bug from 3 days before, and my mom has never been much for manual labor (she tries... she's just very... girly). I told the boyfran we had it under control, but he showed up anyway. That was a huge life saver because he could lift heavy things with my dad. Yay. We needed him more than I realized. I took him to dinner later that week as repayment.
My parents? Meh, they do this all the time. My sister moves WAY more than I do. But I plan on cooking some good dinners to share with them. That counts for something, right?
I'm just glad that's over. And MAN, I need to start throwing things away! Nothing in this world can make a person crave minimalism more than moving. I really need to work on that.
I moved.
Ta-da!!!
I can't say that I'm totally settled in, but I'm closer today than I was yesterday and I plan on making more progress later this week. I'm probably 90% there, if I had to be honest with myself.
The move itself was rough. Storms were in the forecast for the whole week, so I just rented a U-Haul. I don't have the best of luck when it comes to things, so this was just safer. And BY GOD, it was a good call! Thursday (the 30th) was the biggest moving day. It was the day I had my dad, mom and boyfriend to help. It was also the day we were placed under a tornado watch and had large storms headed straight for us. *sigh*
I got up at 7, got myself some breakfast and came to my parents' house to pick up my dad. We got the truck at 9, and just like clockwork, it started raining. The off and on thing would happen all day, with the biggest downpours hitting while we were at the storage unit... almost every time. At one point, all 4 of us were standing inside with all these boxes and furniture, just staring at the truck that was but a couple of feet away. What could you do? You just had to wait for it to let up. Did I mention that was the trip that the cat was being transported? Oh yeah, she was in the car. Talk about heart attack. The poor thing will never be the same. (She was even medicated for this special day.)
Roughly 12 hours after the huge undertaking (who knew I had that much crap?!), I gave up and went to bed. After all, I had to work the next morning. It was quite a day. Things in my life don't go as planned, but I think that's my hint to start being more flexible. And I was-- I made it work.
I really can't thank those who helped enough. Both of my parents were real troopers that day. My dad was still getting over a stomach bug from 3 days before, and my mom has never been much for manual labor (she tries... she's just very... girly). I told the boyfran we had it under control, but he showed up anyway. That was a huge life saver because he could lift heavy things with my dad. Yay. We needed him more than I realized. I took him to dinner later that week as repayment.
My parents? Meh, they do this all the time. My sister moves WAY more than I do. But I plan on cooking some good dinners to share with them. That counts for something, right?
I'm just glad that's over. And MAN, I need to start throwing things away! Nothing in this world can make a person crave minimalism more than moving. I really need to work on that.
The Week Has Arrived...
Welp.
It's here.
The semester is over, and I'm taking a break from packing my house to jot a little down. It's going to be a long, emotional week.
THE GOOD NEWS is that I got two A's and a B out of my classes-- SCORE! And yes, one of those A's was in Algebra. I'm not completely impressed, considering it was a review from about 15 years back, but I'm still kinda proud of it.
Kitty is looking quite concerned as I pack up boxes and stack them... she's pretty high-strung already, and any kind of change makes her a little crazy. Still not sure how I'm going to get her there without a mini stroke.
Back to packing I go. I'm marking boxes with a "B" when they're headed for the basement, and an "S" for storage. Quite organized, if you ask me.
This is the hardest part, because you don't know what to pack and what to leave til closer to time. Bleh.
Finals Week
So fortunately, my classes on campus have been pretty cool so far. I guess I should say the teachers have been cool-- is it because 99% of their class is 18 and they feel like they should go easy on us? Maybe. Who cares, though? It's benefitting me.
My algebra teacher, in particular, has been very helpful. She doesn't take crap off of the younglings, but you can tell she really wants us to get what she's teaching. She set up the class so that we would have TWO full days of review before her final. It's comprehensive, and that can be really intimidating when you haven't touched an inequality for three months. Most of the class showed up on the first review day, and she told us that the second was up to us and how comfortable we felt.
I really felt like it would be cocky for me to stay home the second review day. I mean, I'm in basic algebra for a reason. So I went to school at my usual time last Thursday.
I was one of four people that came.
In all honesty, I had most of my questions answered and felt okay with taking the final. But I just can't be too sure considering my history with the subject. So I took a few more notes and left a little early. But not before I had very disturbing flashbacks of middle and high school math classes.
One girl, who hadn't come to class for the first review day, was asking questions that made me nervous for her. She genuinely didn't get it. A lot of it. The teacher would ask her a simple question about a problem she was doing on the board, and her face would go blank.
....and then, it all came rushing back. That sinking feeling that no matter how hard you wanted to understand, you just couldn't. I spent many nights in tears as I stared at a book that just didn't explain it the way I needed it to. I would cry, and call my friends and ask questions, get aggravated with the whole process, and finally do the problems half-ass just so there was something on the paper. Most of my tests and homework came back looking like they had been stabbed repeatedly: red ink, everywhere.
And this girl... was me, 15 years ago. I couldn't help but get a stomach ache, because that was how my body responded to the stress of feeling helpless. I wanted to get up and hug her and tell her that I knew how she felt. But uh, this is college... we don't do that kinda stuff.
By the time I was getting ready to leave, the teacher was pounding her fist and a dry erase marker on the board. She was equally aggravated that the stuff she had been teaching ALL SEMESTER had made no impact on this girl. I'd imagine that would be hard to swallow, but it probably happens a lot too. I got up and left before it got worse, thankful that I had been able to follow along thus far and that I felt okay about the upcoming final. FINALLY... I'm not physically ill over a math class. This is the first (and quite possibly last) time that has ever happened.
I've got my bio final on Tuesday, and algebra on Thursday. I commented the other day that the semester had gone fast. I'm almost not ready for it to end, because that means I have to start taking even harder classes next semester. One semester closer to applying!!
My algebra teacher, in particular, has been very helpful. She doesn't take crap off of the younglings, but you can tell she really wants us to get what she's teaching. She set up the class so that we would have TWO full days of review before her final. It's comprehensive, and that can be really intimidating when you haven't touched an inequality for three months. Most of the class showed up on the first review day, and she told us that the second was up to us and how comfortable we felt.
I really felt like it would be cocky for me to stay home the second review day. I mean, I'm in basic algebra for a reason. So I went to school at my usual time last Thursday.
I was one of four people that came.
In all honesty, I had most of my questions answered and felt okay with taking the final. But I just can't be too sure considering my history with the subject. So I took a few more notes and left a little early. But not before I had very disturbing flashbacks of middle and high school math classes.
One girl, who hadn't come to class for the first review day, was asking questions that made me nervous for her. She genuinely didn't get it. A lot of it. The teacher would ask her a simple question about a problem she was doing on the board, and her face would go blank.
....and then, it all came rushing back. That sinking feeling that no matter how hard you wanted to understand, you just couldn't. I spent many nights in tears as I stared at a book that just didn't explain it the way I needed it to. I would cry, and call my friends and ask questions, get aggravated with the whole process, and finally do the problems half-ass just so there was something on the paper. Most of my tests and homework came back looking like they had been stabbed repeatedly: red ink, everywhere.
And this girl... was me, 15 years ago. I couldn't help but get a stomach ache, because that was how my body responded to the stress of feeling helpless. I wanted to get up and hug her and tell her that I knew how she felt. But uh, this is college... we don't do that kinda stuff.
By the time I was getting ready to leave, the teacher was pounding her fist and a dry erase marker on the board. She was equally aggravated that the stuff she had been teaching ALL SEMESTER had made no impact on this girl. I'd imagine that would be hard to swallow, but it probably happens a lot too. I got up and left before it got worse, thankful that I had been able to follow along thus far and that I felt okay about the upcoming final. FINALLY... I'm not physically ill over a math class. This is the first (and quite possibly last) time that has ever happened.
I've got my bio final on Tuesday, and algebra on Thursday. I commented the other day that the semester had gone fast. I'm almost not ready for it to end, because that means I have to start taking even harder classes next semester. One semester closer to applying!!
Traditional vs. Non-Traditional Students
I've been meaning to write this for quite some time. I underestimated how tired I'd be between school and work, and this blog subject is TOTALLY reflecting that. Oopsie.
From the very beginning of the semester, I noticed a vast difference in myself and the students that appeared to be right out of high school. Vast. The difference? I'm paying for my education. Most of the younger kids there have an amazing scholarship (A+) and take for granted the amount they're saving on education.
I get it, though. I was there once. Looking back, I might've acted like some of them. I wasn't paying for it, so it wasn't as important for me to take it seriously. I got good grades and always did my assignments, but it was willy nilly. Of course, I was there learning about something I didn't originally plan for (see previous blogs), and I really didn't care for. And maybe that's what some of these kids are experiencing too.
On the first day of my human bio class, the teacher made us go around the room and tell about ourselves, including what our major was. I'll never forget what one girl said: "Um, well I want to be pre-med, so I'm not even sure if this school has anything for me." I about fell on the floor. WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE THEN?!?! Stop wasting your time!! RUN, do NOT WALK to the nearest school that will be worth your while!!! ....of course, I said nothing. But I know that one day she will regret the time spent in this community college that does not, in fact, have anything she needs to become a doctor. A+ scholarship or not, you shouldn't waste time at a school, ever. *clears throat* my sister *cough*
Then there's the kid that sleeps through algebra everyday. Every. Day.
I honestly think he gets stoned before class. I walk past him on the way to class every day, and he's always heading toward his car. Um, wrong way kid! But he came in and got chatty one morning before class. He asked what I was majoring in, because we were all airing our fears about upcoming math classes. He ACTUALLY told me that he was going into engineering, and that he had to pass EVERY SINGLE math class offered.
....shortly after, his head was on the desk and he was asleep. Somehow I don't think he gets what he's up against. Saying you want to be an engineer because it sounds cool won't actually get you through the program. And in case you were wondering, when it came time for our final review he proved he was totally lost in the class by the questions he asked. I'm in basic algebra. G'luck, kid.
I agree that college isn't for everyone. Part of me thinks that we shouldn't start college until our 20s-- live in the real world a couple years and let us decide that we don't want to be burger flippers forever and we'll go back with a TOTALLY different perspective.
I know it's true for me. This time around, it's totally different. I'm working in a profession that some turn into their lifetime career. So while I'm keeping my head in the game there, I'm being reminded everyday that I have to prove myself in order to get where I'm going. I have to make specific grades to even be eligible for this program, and that requires work. I'm not afraid to ask questions a million times over if I have to, if it means I totally and completely understand something to pass a test. Most importantly, I'M PAYING FOR THIS. There will be a bill in the mail the second I graduate, so why would I want to waste a second of the experience?
(side note: Will I ever NOT have a student loan in this lifetime??)
I'm thankful for this third (and Lordy, please FINAL) chance to go back. I'm doing my best to make the most of it. I see it in a totally different light than the people right out of high school. Maybe one day they'll regret it, maybe they won't. I just know that it takes no time at all to differentiate between us in class.
