I’m officially registered to go back now. I have my ID validation sticker and everything. On the alarming side, no one at Saint Mary’s can find the transcript I had sent from NSCAD a month ago, but the Undergraduate Programs Officer is looking into things for me. See, I’ve got this open elective, and I do mean open. It’s not even “Arts 300+” (meaning 2nd year or greater Faculty of Arts course, any subject), it’s just a credit required to take the 4 English credits I need a step further and get me the equivalent of a four-year degree, which you need to be taken seriously nowadays. I’d be happy to take a 5th course this year, but not so happy to pay for it. I really hope this gets worked out.
After midnight between calls I’m reading John Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman, which is getting better with each page. I wish I had a dictionary with me at work, as you need to be a scientist and linguist to accurately interpret the lexicography. That being said, that sense of cross-trade generalization is what I love about the book. The central male character is a classic Amateur, who dabbles in a bunch of different things, and he’s even slightly lazy, so I identified with him right away. I even thought that it would have been kind of nice to live in the Victorian age where I could have been caught up in the great wave of scientific discovery – nah, I probably would have just been a waif like Heathcliff’s son in Wuthering Heights. It was a fun thought while it lasted, though.
While I’m standing on this island, waiting for who knows what (school, I guess?) and deleting off my MSN someone I care for but can’t bear to think about, and avoiding any instance where I could possibly spend a red cent, there are these crazy things happening on the outer sphere, like crane flies dancing across the surface of a pond. Except these crane flies are actually more like enormous speedboats with overpowerful outboard motors.
My grandmother on my mother’s side was in for a kind of heart surgery where they try to clear out the arteries, but a complication occurred when one of her smaller, brittle arteries snapped. For a time she was bleeding internally, but she’s in stable condition now. I won’t soon forget overhearing the conversation my mother was having with the doctor.
So picture my Uncle and my grandfather at the hospital, with my mother making visits when she can and is not looking after Paul. Meanwhile my Uncle has got crazy stuff on his plate as well. I won’t even go into it, but it’s just nuts. Like, “tell the ICU people not to let her in” nuts. And what poor timing.
Everything is changing around me. There’s been so much change this summer, so, so much. I’d like to call it my worst summer ever, but I know that a lot of that has been due to me. I could have gotten out a lot more if I wasn’t such a cheapskate and wasn’t working so much overtime. (Speaking of which, do not attempt working a 15-hour day at a call centre. Your voice is shot after 9 hours, making the rest Hell until you get your third wind.)
I also found out that my job apparently doesn’t give references of any sort. (This was just from a co-worker on another team who came on board my conversation when she overheard me say, “Well, I don’t want to get a bad reference!” when I was answering a question like, “Why are you so concerned about being on time – you’re leaving, aren’t you?”) This makes me wonder why I even bothered to play nice and give three week’s notice. Can’t they even answer a phone call to say I was there and had a good record? That’s all I want. I’ll sure miss my supervisor, though. She’s one of the most beautiful people (inside and out) I’ve ever worked with. Have I said that already? I’ll be sure to tell her as I depart.
There’s also apparently going to be an “exit interview,” which I hope will have amusing Prisoner-esque overtones. “Why did you resign, Number 883337?” So if you don’t see me again after the 28th, you may assume that I am safely tucked away inside the Village.
Letting go. Moving on. Lather, rinse, repeat. I miss being a kid, the expectations were a lot lower.
I see myself on a beach somewhere in PEI, running hither and yon over the undulating sand, deliberately tripping myself and falling flat on my back with a reassuringly sound thud. But I can’t invest too much emotionally in that – even PEI changes.