Small Feet
by evenmoreso
Passion and hope is a sandwich on fire, unless it's a Subway, which in all cases, is a really good fattening neck rub after a long hard day.
Has your life ever been in such a blur that sometimes it's a surprise when you find yourself standing where you are now? I've been told a couple of times to take it easy, that I'm still too young to think about these things. People make it sound like the essence of life is a faucet that I can turn on and off. How can I stop questioning what's going on? I'm breathing and I'm alive. Things change back and forth. All of it is being carried by this huge uncontrollable force and they want me to stand here awkwardly and watch it pass me by. That won't do and maybe that's why I am the way I am-a slightly deranged woman obsessed with permanent bliss and all of its perks. I wonder if anyone has heard of such a thing. In my nineteen years of experience, all I've seen is passing fun. There are moments that were good enough to create joy, but not long enough to seize it so I'm not really certain if it's something that we're meant to have.
I don't remember much but I have so many scars from the past, making it hard for me to live. You might think of literal scars, self-harm, suicide attempts and even eating disorders because it fits perfectly for a dramatic nineteen year old. Fortunately, that's not the case. At least, not yet.
I'm well-off, eating three meals a day and sometimes more, if I'm really hungry. I have enough clothes and shoes that are considered fashionable. Though I really hope you aren't going judge me by having a BMW. I've been getting straight A's since middle school, I do think that I deserve it. You may not agree now, but you will later on. I have a strong feeling about this because my life is not a sob story. This is plainly me, sharing the things I do, see and feel.
My name is Maura. Just Maura. My parents couldn't think of a more pleasant and much longer name, probably because they were too busy paying their dues and making sure that they're giving me the life they never had. They are hard-working-career-obsessed- adults. Maura is short, easy to remember. Imagine the additional stress they have to go through, calling me because I did something wrong and me having a five-syllable name. There's only one problem though. Maura means great and I am not. I look normal, boring and simple, which bothers me more than it should.
But what bothers me most is college and how I'm practically starting back at one. It's hard for me to talk about it but I guess I should, because I want you to understand.
My parents separated when I was a sophomore and I couldn't go to my Biochemistry class that day because well, my life was falling apart and there was nothing I could do about it. They didn't get a divorce because it would just complicate things and my tuition was a bit expensive. Long story short, my mother left and my father decided to never speak to me again because of his twisted reasoning that I looked so much like my mother. I guess that's why he was always hard on me. My only selfish wish was for them to not see anyone else for a long while because when my mother did, I ran away and dropped out of class. One of the perks of being an only child is that your life stops as soon as your parents stop functioning. I know that I should be on my own and I should respect their decisions, but I wish somebody told me that before I decided to focus on studying and stop making friends.
They never really gave me much attention so it definitely hurts when they're giving it to someone else so yes, I was jealous of my mom's boyfriend and her boyfriend's children and I will be infuriated to find out that my dad is seeing a woman who's a lot less familiar version of my mom in the most random ways.
I used to be so proud because even though we were unhappy, we were together and somehow, that convinced me that we were one of the few normal families, living their lives. I was, at least, hoping that they would grow old together and take care of my children, if ever I'm going to have any. I'm like the rest—trying to deny the fact that I'm a product of neglect, exhaustion and incompetency. I dreamt of getting married once, but thanks to them, I have a perfectly skewed version of 'happy' endings and relationships, which resulted to me shutting myself out to every possibility and every opportunity to get hurt.
It worked, because now, I have eighteen units of stress waiting for me at Boston Cambridge University and I couldn't be more excited. I'm not thinking of anything else, at all. Just my degree, my apartment and my tortoise. At twenty two, things shouldn't be bad, right? I still have my old books and I've been reading them over the summer. I've been reading a lot because I don't want to be stagnant. Reading also kills my time, which feels so much better sitting in my soft couch while sipping a cup of warm jasmine tea. I am aware that I sound geeky and I'm not denying it. Besides, if you're not a geek in college, I think you're wasting either your parents' money or your time. I'm severely disgusted by college students who party all the time. I don't like seeing them walk, hearing them talk and laugh. People turn bitter when they are deprived of what they deserve. While it's comfortable to complain and hate them for various reasons, I'm choosing to not let them affect my life because soon enough, I will be a writer and I will write good. People will hear me and think about their choices in life. I will also design buildings and structures for two reasons: I'm an architect major and I heard the pay is really good. Those two reasons are masks, covering the truth of my fear of failing because writers don't make enough money unless they're lucky. The industry is all about luck and what people want. It's hypocritical to have those standards and yet expect for something extraordinary. It's like they want you to write about bagels because people are crazy about bagels. They understand bagels, but at the same time they don't want you to fall into the bagel-cream cheese kind of culture. They want an undercover bagel or a magic bagel that can talk or recite the constitution of the United States of America. I know I am making sense, if only you would just close your eyes.
I really need to turn things around this year. I assume Bass, my pet tortoise, agrees with me. He's looking at me. Bass is not really as interactive as most pets are but he lives longer and that's what I like about him.
My plan for survival is good food, music, wine, hot baths, books and ten hours of sleep. It's not advisable but it works for me. I should worry less because I'm not paying for anything. The world is not my oyster though. This sense of convenience is merely a compromise for what happened to me.
It helps to picture myself on graduation day or the day after where I have new things to do. You might hate me for saying this but I'm not worried about finding a job. As lousy as the economy is, my father has arranged everything ahead of me. He is a good friend of the Fairfields, which is a very prominent family here in Boston. The Fairfields own various companies. Surely, there is a spot for me in there, the same way that they've been forcing Garrett Fairfield into my life. He seems nice but we don't have the same ideals. I haven't been craving the shallowest of relationships either so it wasn't bound to happen. His family was making a big deal of it. My father was too. I've heard all sorts of things like how I would make a good daughter-in-law. I could be a Fairfield in another lifetime, but not this one.
The first week of college came in so fast that I found myself in the kitchen table, multi-tasking by trying to arrange a pile of homework while trying to munch on a celery stick. I like to eat whenever I'm doing something stressful. It's like practicing the dog-treat theory. For each question answered, I get a bite. It wasn't that hard, I just didn't make a habit of procrastinating. I like to get things done immediately so I'd have more time to do the things I want. Most of the subjects I have this semester are easy, except for this one subject that I signed up for but missed because something went wrong with the school's system and I wasn't really aware that I had that subject—Philosophy. I suppose I could get the syllabus and check my professor's schedule. I could even sit in so I wouldn't miss out. I don't know how I feel about those kind of talks and lectures in the morning. I honestly think philosophy is somewhat like psychology without the technicalities. I guess it's good for motivation and for straightening out perspectives but I really hope I won't have to argue and defend my opinions in class. I took three units of political science two years ago and got into a very heated argument with a girl named Susie Chang regarding the advantages and disadvantages of certain political parties. She is very smart and opinionated. She has almond eyes, high cheekbones and a nice tan. She is also a republican which made things worse. I didn't really pay much attention to American politics. I just wanted to know how the system works. That didn't stop her from justifying how right she was though. I lost my temper because I didn't like it when someone made me feel like I was stupid and I really hope I don't have to see her this semester. She's a science major anyway.
Philosophy by its very definition is the study of the fundamental nature of knowledge, reality and existence. I have it every Tuesday at nine. It's not like Math or Biology, but I'm looking forward to it at room 402 in the Arts Building. I haven't been there much because it's a place for Literature and Theater majors. They literally stay there like an enthusiastic cult, swimming in Shakespeare and silly showtunes. The department of Architecture and Fine Arts is more of an indie song, bashing Alanis Morissette at three o'clock in the morning. We keep it to ourselves, unless you're an artist with a god complex. Those people have groups. They usually attend or create their own art shows after sneaking out to smoke pot and listen to Bob Marley and talk about how nudity is overrated. I'm the invisible one who observes in silence. I am pissed and focused at the same time, but really I'm just lonely.
The hallway is filled with so many people. It irks me a little but I've gotten used to it. Room 402, however, is empty. I roll up my sleeve to look at my favorite wrist watch. I'm fifteen minutes early. I should come in anyway because I have nothing better to do.
As usual, I sit at the front to have an advantage. I listen and think better in class that way. It gets a little awkward for a moment until a woman walks in and settles down one seat away from me. I gave her a brief indifferent smile out of modesty and looked down to check my syllabus. I don't pay much attention to the people in my class unless something in them is so obvious like neon green hair, tunnel earrings and racy tattoos. When that happens, I keep reminding myself that I'm in BCU and people don't just get in. It's comforting to not be surrounded by complete idiots all the time.
The woman smiles back and asks me if she's in the right class. I nod in return. She's getting busy with her own set of notes and books, which gives me a quick opportunity to look at her. She has brown eyes and olive skin, which I'm jealous of. I'm part Irish so it's normal to look fair next to a snowman. Her messy dark brown hair is tamed in a subtle ponytail which adds definition and a certain glow to her very much proportioned face. She looks young and slender even though she's wearing a thick white blouse and a gray blazer. She looks like a law student in style.
I pretend to read before I could embarrass myself from trying to make a small talk. As pretty as she is, the outside doesn't always reflect what's on the inside. I'm not trying to judge anyone though. I'm just cautious.
Five more minutes passed and the silence is killing me. I can feel her looking but I choose to ignore it. I'm a sincere person but most people find that hard to believe because I can't look them in the eye. If eyes are really the window to the soul, then my reasons are valid. I can't let them see me for who I really am. I don't like it when people try to figure me out. They can't and they won't unless I want them to.
Another three minutes irk me ever so painfully and then the students start to arrive. She tries to keep an eye on them one by one until the seats are occupied. One more minute of silence and I hear whispers at the back, wondering where our professor is since it's almost nine. Suddenly, the brunette beside me stands up and picks up her things, putting them on the desk. She starts writing something on the chalkboard and it doesn't take long for me to realize that the name she's writing is the same as the one printed on my syllabus: Jane Rizzoli.
"Finally, someone's looking for me." She turned to face the class and chuckled. She's standing tall and confident. "I'm Jane Rizzoli. I'm going to be your Philosophy teacher this semester," She says. I still don't believe what I'm seeing. She can't be a BCU professor. Sure, she looks older than me but she doesn't look that old and I guarantee that the rest of the class agrees with me.
"Before we go to class rules and expectations, I would like to address a couple of things. This class is not going to be easy, however, it is going to be worth it so if you want to pass this subject with flying colors, I suggest you stop ignoring the small things." She starts walking back and forth, probably familiarizing herself with strange faces. She glances at me for a second, as if she's containing a grin. I think she knows I'm surprised.
"Don't call me Professor Rizzoli, Ms. Rizzoli or worse, Ms. Rizz because it sounds ridiculous. I prefer Miss Jane. I'm a BCU alumna and I can assure you, I'm older than all of you. Should you doubt my credibility because of my appearance, feel free to go to the Dean's office to check my credentials or the library where you can find one of the few books I wrote. Questions? "
The whole class is laughing, except for me. I don't think she's joking at all. Either way, I'm stunned and intrigued. I've never met a professor, this young. My guess is that she's twenty nine, fresh from grad school. I made a mental note to go to the library today just to see what she's all about, though it's really not hard to see how smart she is.
Jane Rizzoli isn't a woman. She is a professor. Her words are precise and understandable. The lessons are oozing with different energies and a certain degree of wit and I can't tell if it's because of her or philosophy itself. Her beauty makes her twice as likable, aside from the obvious fact that she loves what she's doing. She knows what she's doing. I'm far beyond impressed that all I do is look at her and indulge myself with the way she talks. Her voice is deep, almost raspy but clear. It's appealing enough to put me to sleep but my newfound interest in this class keeps me awake.
She's not a professor who's slapping her master's degree in your face. She keeps in touch with knowledge and recognizes its nature to grow and change. This might be too much to say in one day, but that's how I feel. She hasn't even discussed much, just the basics of philosophy—definitions, opinions, versions and its benefits.
"If you stay with me in this class, I'm going to teach you how to teach yourselves to live. Not to dictate or alienate your views, but to enrich the things that you already know and help you to make more sense in this life." She says. And that promise just hits me. It's what I need. "Sounds like an infomercial right? But trust me, that's what philosophy is all about."
If I could define my day in a sentence, I'd say 'I am loving my Tuesdays', thanks to her.