SIS~Scarlette’s school days: Grappling with The Groper and getting in with the girls
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
I'm in college again. Sort of.
A few weeks ago I decided that my life is a void of Starbucks, blogging and watching endless talk shows. I needed something – something that would make me feel like I had a purpose. I needed a class or a job or a life.
I pondered this idea for a few weeks when I remembered a past occupational love of mine: In another life I worked for the YMCA as a swim instructor. I taught for seven years. I thought why not get re-certified and teach swim lessons this summer?
Perfect! I’ll get a good tan, hang out near bodies of water and the exercise will be good for my ass.
So I started the exhausting task of finding somewhere to take the Red Cross Water Safety Instructor course (or WSI Class). I let my certification lapse and would have to test out or take the class over.
After two days of calling every pool in the greater Northwest I found out that a community college in Spokane offered the class, but I couldn't test out and it was going to be held two nights a week for five weeks. That’s one hell of a commitment.
But I checked my schedule, and other than having to miss the American Idol finale, I had no plans. I signed up for the class and even purchased a parking permit. (A lesson I learned in my prior college days: Those parking tickets can add up, in my case, to at least $437 before they tow you.)
The prospect of going back to school, even for one class, was intoxicating.
Would I meet any friends? Would they like to go out for drinks after class? Would I be the annoying old person in class who always raises their hand? Should I go hang out in the SUB and people watch?
This was going to be like 1994 all over again, but way better because I can hold my liquor, purchase it myself and I’m not as dumb.
I pulled into the school two hours early the first day and tried to find the student union building.
Um, let me tell you a little something, community college is not like a state college, not in the slightest. The SUB was called the lair. No one hangs out in the lair, except me. The only exception to this is when annoying people decide to stop by to play the piano.
That is not a joke. There is nothing in the lair except free wireless and a very loud piano. This piano beckons all tone deaf people in a 50-mile radius to come and share their gift with the nonexistent masses.
However, I would suffer almost any indignity for a fast wireless connection. I'm an Internet ho, what can I say?
Finally it was time for class. I waltzed into the room, excited at the prospect of seeing new faces. That’s when reality came crushing down: Most of the class was composed of 17-year-olds, a few older grey-haired ladies, many teenagers and me.
Great. Which way do I go? I'm not ready to eat butterscotch candies and comb my cats on the weekend; but, at the same time, I'm old enough to drink. It wasn't looking promising. I’d have to study my classmates for a few sessions and decide which party I wanted to align myself with.
In the first few classes I observed a variety of behaviors. It didn't take long for me to realize why high school girls are completely nuts. It has to do with high school boys. They are the strangest creatures on earth: immature, naive and blindly horny.
The horniest boys of them all are the ones in a swim class with 10 or 12 scantily-clad teenage girls; the ante is upped when the boys have to "demonstrate" their teaching skills. No wonder 16-year-olds like to date men in their 20's (I always thought it had to do with older men's ability to buy beer and cigarettes. The real reason is that they’re only about half as annoying as teenagers.)
The older ladies in the class weren't really a mystery, just think of Angela Landsbury in a Speedo and you’ll get the picture.
In the end, my place in the class was decided because of my intimate knowledge of celebrity gossip and inability to stay quiet. The teenage girls accepted me as the oldest, saggy-boobed member of their tribe the day I remarked on my distaste for a fellow classmate we'll call The Groper.
The Groper had problems, the most obvious being his uncontrollable urge to molest his female classmates, but less apparent and more insidious was his ability to irritate like a boil.
On day one, we learned about teaching parent/child classes. The Groper raised his hand about seven thousand times and, thanks to him, none of us old people would be deemed the annoying hand-raisers. On about the 81st time his hand shot up it was to ask the instructor: "What do we do if the mom's pregnant?"
The instructor, confused and annoyed by his constant questions, answered: "We don't really worry about whether or not they are pregnant; it doesn't really affect the class."
I fought the urge to turn to him and say: "Oh, you should lecture her on getting pregnant when she already had a baby. I mean seriously, how inconsiderate is that?"
Setting him up like that would have been so fun.
Instead, I started laughing. Laughing so hard my eyes watered and I nearly wet myself. This created mass disruption in the class. The old ladies were laughing, the teacher was laughing, the girls were laughing. I don't even know why it was funny. I can't explain it.
I tried to apologize but it was too late, the mutiny had begun.
Now The Groper hates me. He hates me so much he doesn't even grope me anymore.
I know it’s mean to make fun of the dumb, but come on?
Maybe this whole class thing was a good idea, I'm having fun. It doesn't qualify as a bona fide college experience (because of the sobriety), but it’s certainly better than singing Katy Perry to my cat.
When I graduate from my class next week I’ll shed a solitary tear when I take my parking permit off my rearview mirror. Then I'll drive to a bar and have a graduation party. You’re all invited.
Going to kick The Groper's ass if he ever tries to teach me the breaststroke again,
Scarlette Quille
Reader Comments (2)
As always, you freakin kill me. "The Groper." I pray, pray, pray, you never give me a nickname, or if you do, it simply shows my own stupidity, as opposed to any inconsiderateness towards women. (I mean honestly, buy me a drink before you molest me, right?)
He literally picked a girl up by the boobs to demonstrate back floating, its horrible but all we do the whole class is laugh at him...
What if we give you a sweet nickname, there is a guy around here that goes by Kodiak 9. Not sure what that means but I know he thinks its awesome.