A Kinder Mama Snee

Okay, I feel like kind of a jerk. I went on and on about Girl 1 and Girl 2 from massage school in this blog, about how they’re annoying to me, et cetera. And then continued to sit in the classes I share with G1 and G2 and fume and grind my teeth because they drove me so crazy. And when the teacher would chat them up and give them all of this attention, I would sit in my little desk/ over my little table and think “Don’t you know how annoying they are? Stop talking to them!” which, for immature and childish women in their thirties like me, translates emotionally to “Please tell me you like me and that I’m your favorite and that I am doing a fine job.”

I think G2 is failed the last class we had together. I know this (I think) because someone failed the class, according to the grades posted in the lounge, and I’m fairly certain it was her. I even had half of a plan to figure out, by process of elimination, if that was indeed her student ID number, so I would know FOR SURE that she’d failed the class. The plan involved taking down the number and waiting until next term and then some complicated observing of the grade board. What the fuck is wrong with me? I mean, really. The girl failed the class because she didn’t show up much. It isn’t complicated. And furthermore, why do I need to know—and confirm—that this is true?

Here’s the reason, I realized this weekend, that I dislike G2 so much: Although we have vastly different sets of social behaviors and skills, G2 is like me at nineteen. She’s crapping her way through massage school in much the same way that I crapped my way through the first few years of college, showing up for class inconsistently at best, making just-good-enough grades, coming up with really dumb excuses, relying on the good graces of teachers, getting in the way of the students who give a damn.* And I regret, regret, regret that. So when I sit next to my table fuming, thinking “Geezus, G2, keep up—you’re paying for this class, you know, so maybe you should show the fuck up,” what I really mean is “I wish I would have been as interested and attentive and dedicated when I went to college as I am at massage school, thirteen years later.”**

And G1? She’s actually really sweet. She’s a sponge in class. She’s wide-eyed and learning a lot, just like I am. And others saw that from the beginning, recognized her potential, and have been kind to her. Unlike me, who would probably be one of those mean, slobbery-type dogs that eats kittens, if I were a dog. And she were a kitten. Whatever. The point is, she’s not so bad, and I’m an evil old ogre.

So enough about G1 and G2. I also realize that if any of the faculty were to know how venomous I’ve been toward those two, I would certainly get a talking-to, and I’d deserve it.

So, massage school has been good this week. We’re almost finished learning the basic Swedish techniques, meaning that I’m two arm-sequences away from being able to give an hour-long, for-real massage, and after next term I’ll be one-third of the way through the program. Again, who knew massage school would be so much like regular school? Today, we massaged butts and legs. That’s right. We massaged butts. You know how, after you breastfeed, you feel like you could go to the grocery store topless and not think twice about it, since everyone in the world has now seen your lovely ladies? Well, that’s the way I now feel about my ass. It’s kind of a nice feeling. (and so is getting your ass massaged.)

*For the record, I did sort of okay in parts of college, and even did well in some classes, including my writing workshops, studio art, art history, contemporary poetry, theater, and gender studies. I totally crapped through Mideivel Lit, History of the Ottoman Empire, Algebra 1 and Algebra 1 repeated, Computer something-something, and Italian 2 (though I ended up minoring in Italian, go figure).

**Also for the record, G2 is still annoying. I’m just going to react to it differently.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s