As thousands of Moose Jaw youngsters start making ‘Reasons my homework isn’t done’ excuses lists and practice combing their hair for the first time all summer in advance of school picture day, perhaps it is not the most appropriate time for me to quote lyrics from Alice Cooper’s legendary song School’s Out.
No more pencils, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks.
Or, as it has been playing over and over in my head for the last week: No more pencils! No more books!! No more teachers’ dirty looks!!!
Don’t mistake those exclamation marks for excitement, though. Nay, those punctuation points represent anxiety, concern and fear — debilitating fear. I am as terrified as a Brit seeing a swarm of mosquitoes for the first time.
Yes, as most people dread the thought of going back to school, I am dreading the idea of not plodding back to the old desk to write, read and doze off during discussions on the meaning of a duck in some poem.
Now before you picture me with Coke bottle glasses and suspenders and jammed in a locker, know that I was only a semi-nerd. I only kept my calculator in my shirt’s breast pocket once. Okay, twice a week.
The thing is, every September for the last 18 years my waning summer tan and I have walked into educational institutions, taken a deep breath and then realized I am already five minutes late for class.
Eighteen consecutive Septembers. Next Monday on my way to work I have a feeling my car will instinctively take me to the university instead.
Having an actual job is great, of course; even eating a steady diet of baked beans and rice is oodles better than peanut butter sandwiches and soda crackers seven days a week. Money is good, giving all your money to the university, not so good.
But I will miss those cantankerous teachers, students who cannot name the prime minister, and study periods in the library (see: paper airplane flying practice).
I will miss reading only the first and last pages of a chapter and attempting to discuss it, and last minute studying for exams — placing my notes on my bike handlebars and trying to read them. Spoofing Monty Python skits for class projects and starting — and finishing — essays in the 10 hours before they are due; that I will miss.
And the one issue that has been nagging me since that last exam in April: is it still socially acceptable to wear a backpack? Going hiking? Sure, strap one on, but if it is just a regular day in October can I, a retired student, sport a pack or will I merely be seen as an old fart trying to recapture his youth?
My knapsack is a grownup one, yes — not like Times-Herald summer student Danett Vantassel’s famous Diego pack — and I do love my satchel (definitely not a man purse), but I would still to like to wear a pack. I may look 15, but teens would say I’m ancient now; my walker is in the mail.
So if you see me sticking up my hand before speaking or sprinting outside at 2:15 p.m. for recess, bear with me, I’ve known nothing else. In time I’ll become a proper working man, I reckon.
Then again, I’ve never held a job for longer than four months and might need a ‘real’ degree at some point, so maybe I can be a career student after all. If that’s the case, I want a Diego backpack, too.
Myles Fish can be reached at 691-1263.
