To add to the "big break" post below, the student writer did indeed sign a contract. May the publisher-bidding wars begin! This girl is on her way to a very new life--or at least through a very exciting door.
I'm inspired and a teensy bit envious. I'm in search of my own new door, one that sparkles in the way the start of my fervently wanted careers once did. I don't yet know what my new door will look like, how hard or easy it will be to turn the knob. Maybe I can polish up the careers I already have. Get my own students book deals or jobs or simply help open doors they hadn't considered--maybe (hopefully) I already have.
Present time concern: I woke up this morning thinking about pocketbooks. Not dreaming of them, but rather seriously considering if I had one to match the outfit I would wear on Thursday (see photo below) This is a strange concern for me, because when in doubt, I grab the backpack and that's that. But it's also not unusual that at this particular time I'm thinking of outfits and matching this and that's, because I'm traveling to a time when these things super-obsessed me.
On Thursday eve, I'm attending a high school reunion. I'm not the reunion type, simply because I always fear I don't have much to show for myself (my self esteem plummets to those hazy not-so lazy days) and I'm not the rah rah rah type--but, then, that's not exactly true. Once upon a time I was. And when people look beyond my librarian glasses and love for hard-cover dictionaries, after they say "you were a cheerleader?!" they see my go-team smile which hasn't washed off in, well, 40+ years. And it will be right at home at this very specific get-together, a cheerleader reunion.
When I first saw the invitation, I was overcome with dread (high school self-esteem). I "rented" a grandchild (friend Debby's adorable little one), pulled myself together (along with the cute outfit that has no matching pocketbook), and got into it. I created a late sixties playlist--Dionne Warwick, the Beatles, the Supremes, Fifth Dimension, Herman's Hermits, the Temps, and the list of all my favorites goes on.
What felt two months ago like an event I couldn't possibly attend has taken on the warmth of nostalgia and reminiscence. Who will I see? I imagine, once insecure girls, too, who've grown into themselves. Who will I be? Proud of who I've become (leaning in that direction) or aware of my flaws? (Uh uh.)
High school is the door I'll stand before this week. I'll turn the knob and step inside. I'll likely wear the yellow skirt and top that has no matching pocketbook. And no one will care.
(I'm second from the top right, the one with the fold through her face.)