Dis-Orientation

So, orientation was today, and in typical orientation style, I left more confused than before. My schedule, to say the least, is frightening. I believe I experienced a brief moment of insanity (or a brief six weeks of insanity) as I filled out my course requests last year, and I am now presented with a full day.

No math, though, which I'm not sure is a good thing. After all, I'd like to take Calculus next year, but I'm pretty sure my brain will be quite fuzzy on those concepts by then. I guess we'll see.

The scariest thing, though, is tomorrow. First days are always so nerve-wracking. Meeting a whole posse of new teachers, remembering all my teachers, classrooms, books, and homework . . . I wish I could skip it altogether. Honestly, I don't mind school so much once I get into the swing of things, used to the routine. Yes, the daily grin can be a complete bore, but the evil I know is definitely preferable to the evil I don't know. That being said, school can be pretty evil even in the middle of the year. *coughmidtermsfinalscough* Routine can get me very depressed, I realize, and doing the same thing every day can really bring me down. Especially when I don't get home until six every day.

So, while orientation was mildly chaotic, I feel bad for my little sister. Fake little sister, that is. The little freshie seemed completely lost, even more nervous than I was way back when. Then again, I mentally blocked most of ninth grade (heavy trauma), so I could be deceiving myself. For all I know, I could have been quaking in my black flats. In fact, I probably was. Most of what I remember from my freshman year consists of rushing from place to place and coming late to everything because I kept getting lost in my labyrinth of a building, while the upperclassmen strolled leisurely through the halls, all self-assured and confident, and never, ever got lost.

Wow. I'm that upperclassman. (Well, upperclasswoman, really, but the idea is the same.) My principal announced, this morning, as we made ourselves comfortable for the long list of speeches to come, that we are officially "over the hump." Every day this year, instead of making me deeper enmeshed in my high school, is bringing me one step closer to freedom. One day less to graduation. I recall thinking to myself, when I first put on that stifling uniform two years ago, how much was ahead of me. Four years is a very long time. But now? I've survived. I made it halfway through, and I have only two years to go. Two years is a very short time.

My big sister, just so you know, was not at all nice to me. I remember her pointing vaguely in one direction and saying, "There are your lockers," and vaguely in the other direction and saying, "There's where we daven," before grabbing her bag and saying, "Bye." Helpful, I know. It was her job to make the transition a little easier for me, but she was just impossible. So, of course, I vowed to be a much better big sister when I reached that age, and help out my charge with lockers, books, and all the messy paperwork. I even called her the night before! And today, I spent a good hour schlepping her books, waiting on line, and just explaining some rules, before giving her the grand tour, and . . . MY PHONE NUMBER. Hopefully, when my little one hits eleventh grade, she'll be inclined to return the favor, and make it a little easier on an incoming freshman.

(Wouldn't it be weird if my fake little sister became my real little sister's fake big sister? And then if my real little sister became my fake little sister's real little sister's fake big sister? It's like cosmic justice or something.)

But anyway, I'm just seriously nervous about tomorrow. Wish me luck!

Labels are for Cans

I can’t make jello.

No, this is not a treatise on gel-like substances. I shan’t wax poetic on the relative attributes of p’tcha (gala, for those of you more chassidishly inclined), versus that stuff that appears on the bottom of the chicken pan by Tuesday. I shall, instead, venture into the metaphorical.

I can’t make jello.

I used to think it was genetic, but the last time my aunt threw a sheva berachos, she served perfect little personal jello servings, each the exact same size and shape.

The last time I made jello, I took it out of the fridge, flipped it over, and watched it go splat! all over the serving dish.

(In retrospect, perhaps I should have used real jello, as opposed to the box of Jewish jello that had been sitting in our Pesach cabinet since 1995. But I digress.)

Anyway, the last time I tried to make jello, the only thing I actually succeeded in making was a royal mess. I concluded I have an issue with molds, specifically, fitting things into them.

(Aha!, you’re going. She’s reached the punchline!)

My aunt, the aforementioned balabusta, raised six daughters, and all attended the same high school. Each proceeded to leave school before twelfth grade, attend seminary for two years out of the country, and attain their GED somehow before going to Touro and becoming a physical therapist/speech therapist/occupational therapist/teacher. Each then proceeded to be neatly married off to a family with connections, either monetarily, or high up in the family tree. Except the last. The youngest daughter was the black sheep, choosing to graduate high school—gasp!—and attend a different seminary than her sisters had. I have no doubt, though, that my dear aunt will overcome this “setback” when pursuing a good match (and by “good,” I mean, “useful”) for my cousin. As I said, my aunt is very good at fitting jello into perfect molds. Except for that last little . . . “slip-up.” But I’m sure she’ll just cover it up with a decorative mint leaf or something, like “R---- is just so interested in a heimish education that she couldn’t give up her last year of high school. Dedicated, she is!”

I am a circular peg, refusing to be smashed into a square hole, despite attempts to hammer me in through conformity, accepted norms, and the general standard. I don’t do molds.

I can’t make jello.

And I don’t want to.