Page 13 of Prosecco with My Professor
I take a deep breath, thinking about how Sara would tell me to focus my thoughts away from Bruce and toward my successes. She’s a yoga instructor and practices mindfulness, and she would tell me that my negative thoughts are hurting me more than they hurt my ex-husband, so I should do my best to encourage my mind back to my school and my success.
I’d always wanted to get my MBA. Bruce and I had talked about it a lot, but it always got pushed to “someday.” Well someday isnow, and I’m going to show Bruce, myself, and my kids that I am a smart, independent woman, and that even after kids and a divorce I can start fresh and be whoever I want to be.
I use that thought to carry me forward. My messenger bag weighs heavily on my shoulders as I take the steps up into the building. A few people are filtering in, too, but not many: men and women, a variety of languages and ethnicities.
What they do have in common is that they are all younger than me.
Like, by a lot.
Like, my kids are closer in age to these people than I am.
My gray hair doesn’t help. I’m wearing it down today, and it brushes against my bare arms while I glance down at the paper with my schedule on it. The first week here is an orientation, and the first day is an introduction to the school, the curriculum, and the staff. My schedule says “auditorium,” and the people filtering in are all moving in the same direction, so I join the stream and hope I’m going the right way.
I’ve read the school’s brochures and statistics. Most people are late-twenties, early-thirties, with at least five years of related work under their belt. I have fifteen years’ experience running the small business that Bruce and I started together, Second Chances, but I’m not sure what that qualifies me for.
It was enough to get into the program, and that’s what matters, I suppose.
The auditorium hums, but it’s not crowded. I pick a spot in the middle row, a few seats between me and anyone else. No one has their laptops out, but a few people have tablets or notepads, so I leave my computer in my bag and pull out a spiral notebook. I bought a stash of them, and they bring me back to my school days. If only I could have tracked down a Lisa Frank notebook or at least some stickers.
I do, however, need a pen. Rooting around in my bag, I cannot find any writing utensils. I could have sworn I packed one. I remember putting a pen on the little coffee table in my apartment.
This bag isn’t that old. How are there already crumbs and grit in the corners of the pockets? And is that…
I pull out a smooth and thin square object. Yup, that’s a condom. No doubt Jade’s handy work.
Glancing up, I see that the guy three seats down has noticed me and my condom. My cheeks heat. I’m going to kill Jade.
Returning it to the pocket whence it came, I smile through my excruciating blush.
“I was looking for a pen. Do you have any? Pens, I mean, not…” I gesture vaguely. Or at least, I hope it’s a vague gesture. “Prophylactics.”
“I have a pen,” he says without meeting my eye. But he reaches into his bag, a leather satchel, and retrieves a blue pen.
“Thank you,” I say, and pull out my phone, diverting my attention to anywhere but the young kid I just used the wordprophylacticsin front of.
I open our group chat.
Emma
Great. The only words I’ve said to another student so far have been while holding a condom.
Jade
See? I knew you would need it. Aren’t you glad I shoved it in there?
(That’s what she said)
Emma
I’m not having sex with him!
Jade
Why not?
Okay, just kidding. I only snuck it in because I want you to be safe and have some fun.
Emma
