Five minutes into my calculus class, a dumb smile was plastered on my face. What the hell did I get myself into? It is still the Math I remember, with the familiar X and Ys but my professor was talking alien to me. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t follow what a Math teacher was explaining. I am both anxious and excited. Anxious because I might fail this class and excited because I would be able to test my capacity in a, let’s say, more difficult environment.
The first two days of school were pretty much normal except maybe some circumstances which almost pushed my patience to the limit — the circumstances being conflicting schedules, dissolved sections and dropped subjects. I was forced by the Registrar to drop 6 units and it broke my heart. Now I have a million vacant hours in between classes.
Plus there’s the tinee tiny bit of embarrassment when people ask about my past. Why I transferred, where I came from, why I studied again, etc. And I still elude the question “How old are you?” as much as possible especially when I realize most of my classmates are 4 years my junior. I feel old.
Worse are the somewhat disappointed and judgmental facial expressions I get from people when I tell them my story. One professor even said, “Bakit mag-aaral ka ulit? Ayaw mo magtrabaho?” which stung may be because it’s true.
Also, there’s the issue of being an irregular. I have 8 different sections for my 8 subjects this semester and I doubt it if I’d make any deep friendly relationships with any of my classmates. Actually, I like it that way so that I can be left alone to focus on my studies (naks). I can spend my vacant hours in the library reading all the books I’ve been meaning to read (hello Dostoevsky!). But there are times when I wish I have the company of friends and the cliché of being part of a regular block – cheering for our NCAA Basketball team, for example.
Sometimes I ask myself if I’m really ready to spend the next 3 years studying (again) instead of gaining working experience, to graduate and take the boards at 25 or 26 years old. Am I okay with starting a career that late, at a time when most of my nursing friends probably have completed the required 3 years hospital experience, ready to migrate to greener pastures? I feel down.
And then I look at the subjects I’d be taking and the excitement of studying them, I think of my supportive (and sometimes nagging haha) parents, schwester and relatives and I remember God’s love for me. And then I realize, I don’t need to explain to other people. I don’t need fear nor worry aaaaand age is just a number. In every choice there are always what-ifs, no one is always a hundred percent sure. The trick is to look at the glass half full.
Ergo, in Barney’s words