While recently chatting with a former professor on gmail chat he typed something that thoroughly made me question whether or not I’m actually on some sort of illegal substance unawares:
“One of my students is doing his Ph.D. on an Ed program for the moon....and....”
Say WHAT?! My fingers lingered for a minute over my keyboard—all I wanted to do was see if it was ok if I used him as a reference for something—and suddenly my life turned into a whole new kind of weird. Weird that surpassed…you know…Brittany Spears.
“That can’t be real,” I madly typed back, wondering if my very sweet old professor had grown a tumor since I’d last seen him. Maybe he was typing this from a psych ward.
“What can’t be real? The Lunar Ed program or that I’m working with Dr. D?” he typed back.
Gee, I wonder…..
“THE LUNAR ED PROGRAM!” I typed back in all caps. He must have the tumor.
What would I take him when I visited him at the hospital?
“We present the program pretty soon for NASA,” he added, “They’ve committed to colonies on the Moon and Mars.”
Of course they have, I think to myself, And they’re sending you up as a test pilot, aren’t they Mr-Still-Dipping-Into-The-Sixties?
As I was typing this a friend popped her chat into my screen and asked:
“What are you doing?” So I told her.
“You live in the twighlight zone,” she wrote back.
In that moment I thought for a second: yes, yes, maybe I do. Maybe that’s why my world is so flipping bizarre and everyone else just says, (while patting me on the head) “only you, Leis, only you.”
Maybe I’m the one with the brain issue who is sitting up in bed typing to a professor and imagining his responses. I touch the sofa. No, that’s definitely a sofa. Then Lindsey walks into the room and sits next to me.
“What are you doing?”
“They’re going to do an Education program on the MOON!” I shout knowing full well this will only lead to a smirk and “what unidentified crap have you eaten TODAY?” from rational Lindsey. But considering she works with people who swear their father lives on Demon Dimension # 5, telling her strange things isn’t exactly a risk in our relationship.
An hour and a half later my online conversation with the Prof has shifted to WWII topics and he’s telling me about his visit to Normandy. I’m crying. I’m crying because he describes it so tenderly but all I can think is:
You’re totally freaking crazy, and the point is, I am. But the other point is—so is he and that’s why I enjoy him.
And also why I enjoy the little group I attend on Thursday nights where Linds and I are the youngest by about…well….nearly forty years. Where, last night, the little beautiful Japanese woman who can barely speak English jumped up and down when she came through the door.
“I ring the bell—did you hear it?! I ring it!” she was so excited about this. The doorbell is new and we used to not be sure if it worked.
“Yes,” Lindsey says “that’s why I opened the door.” The woman claps her hands together and laughs. “Oh!” she says while she sits next to Jack, the octogenarian who is just as likely to recite six pages of Scripture at random as he is to tell you a joke or a story about a Hippopotamus. It here that I realize:
Unknown illegal substance, psych ward, a tumor or my real life—I like this. I like it just the way it is.
“One of my students is doing his Ph.D. on an Ed program for the moon....and....”
Say WHAT?! My fingers lingered for a minute over my keyboard—all I wanted to do was see if it was ok if I used him as a reference for something—and suddenly my life turned into a whole new kind of weird. Weird that surpassed…you know…Brittany Spears.
“That can’t be real,” I madly typed back, wondering if my very sweet old professor had grown a tumor since I’d last seen him. Maybe he was typing this from a psych ward.
“What can’t be real? The Lunar Ed program or that I’m working with Dr. D?” he typed back.
Gee, I wonder…..
“THE LUNAR ED PROGRAM!” I typed back in all caps. He must have the tumor.
What would I take him when I visited him at the hospital?
“We present the program pretty soon for NASA,” he added, “They’ve committed to colonies on the Moon and Mars.”
Of course they have, I think to myself, And they’re sending you up as a test pilot, aren’t they Mr-Still-Dipping-Into-The-Sixties?
As I was typing this a friend popped her chat into my screen and asked:
“What are you doing?” So I told her.
“You live in the twighlight zone,” she wrote back.
In that moment I thought for a second: yes, yes, maybe I do. Maybe that’s why my world is so flipping bizarre and everyone else just says, (while patting me on the head) “only you, Leis, only you.”
Maybe I’m the one with the brain issue who is sitting up in bed typing to a professor and imagining his responses. I touch the sofa. No, that’s definitely a sofa. Then Lindsey walks into the room and sits next to me.
“What are you doing?”
“They’re going to do an Education program on the MOON!” I shout knowing full well this will only lead to a smirk and “what unidentified crap have you eaten TODAY?” from rational Lindsey. But considering she works with people who swear their father lives on Demon Dimension # 5, telling her strange things isn’t exactly a risk in our relationship.
An hour and a half later my online conversation with the Prof has shifted to WWII topics and he’s telling me about his visit to Normandy. I’m crying. I’m crying because he describes it so tenderly but all I can think is:
You’re totally freaking crazy, and the point is, I am. But the other point is—so is he and that’s why I enjoy him.
And also why I enjoy the little group I attend on Thursday nights where Linds and I are the youngest by about…well….nearly forty years. Where, last night, the little beautiful Japanese woman who can barely speak English jumped up and down when she came through the door.
“I ring the bell—did you hear it?! I ring it!” she was so excited about this. The doorbell is new and we used to not be sure if it worked.
“Yes,” Lindsey says “that’s why I opened the door.” The woman claps her hands together and laughs. “Oh!” she says while she sits next to Jack, the octogenarian who is just as likely to recite six pages of Scripture at random as he is to tell you a joke or a story about a Hippopotamus. It here that I realize:
Unknown illegal substance, psych ward, a tumor or my real life—I like this. I like it just the way it is.
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