It was boredom, mostly, that sent me back to College at 54. The kids were grown, Bob was on his third wife, and I had too much time on my hands.
I enrolled in a Creative Writing course for lack of interest in much else. I figured the assignments would keep me occupied, rather than watching old episodes of Golden Girls. Classes were Tuesday and Thursday evenings, and I actually felt nervous to be on campus again.
I had never graduated, leaving to find work so Bob could become a lawyer. It worked out well, financially, as I was able to get a nice settlement at the divorce ten years ago. I dated, but found it was usually just a way to have sex, for both of us.
I was pleased to find a wide range of ages at the first class, from late teens into seventies, about a dozen in all. I sat in the rear, a habit from high school to see how other students reacted.
The professor was late, and arrived in a flourish, introducing himself as a Hippie in a Time Warp, and made us each stand, introduce ourselves, and say what we expected from the class.
I BS'd that I hoped to enhance my letter writing skills, and others had similar desires. Then a lanky kid about 23, on my left, stood, said, "I'm Mickey, and I expect an A+" and sat down. The professor roared in delight and we all chuckled.
He gave us an assignment and as class broke up, I said to Mickey, "Good answer, you got his attention."
He smiled and looked me over, and said softly, "After all, I don't have your looks to catch his eye," and he winked at me, and was gone.
I paused, and thought, did he mean me? I looked around and there was no one behind me. Why, that little flirt! I have two kids older than him! And I realized I was blushing, my cheeks rosy red.
As I said, I'm fifty four, with all my original parts. Friends have had tummy tucks and lifts to their chins and butts, but I prefer to age naturally. That's not to say I'm Christy Brinkley. I look 54, my body is curvy, not slender, my breasts are ample, 36C, and I stand 5'5. And I never, NEVER, get compliments from twenty-somethings.
The next class, Mickey was already seated. Being a creature of habit, I took my same seat, as he said, "How is the Lovely Mary this evening?"
I smiled, and felt myself blushing again. "Fine, thanks. Mickey, right?"
"You remembered me! My night's already made!"
He was laying it on too thick, so I smirked and said, "Glad I could help."
They broke us into groups of four, with Mickey, me, a cute brunette about 20 and another middle -aged woman. We each took turns reading our pieces aloud for the others to critique while the Prof listened in. He was very emphatic about being honest, but I didn't feel right judging someone else's work. Neither did anyone else, so the professor would throw little digs at the author.
I read my piece, which I thought was humorous, and Mickey watched intently, a smile on his face the whole time. When I concluded, the Prof said, "Comments? No? Well, Mary, I do." He went on about it being amateurish, and bland, and I thought I would cry, when Mickey's hand shot up.
"Professor, I disagree. I think it showed wit and creativity. I especially liked..." and he went on, raving as if I was Ernest Hemingway. The prof nodded and said, "Good, if you like something, say it. Just get involved, Damn it!"
I looked over at Mickey and he smiled and nodded, as if saying, it'll be okay. Class ended, and I gathered up my things, and I felt Mickey watching me. We walked out together, making small talk.
"So, how are you enjoying campus life?" he asked.
"It's my second day, after more than thirty years, very different. And just the one class."
"Oh? You need the full experience again. The cafeteria with it's lousy food, the Rathskeller with the flat beer!"
"Even though they sound very inviting, I don't even know where they are."
"Well, you're in luck. You have the Campus Tour Guide at your disposal! As a matter of fact, that red building is the Student Union, and the Rathskeller. Can I buy you a drink?"
I stopped and turned to him. "Okay, Mister, what's yous story?"
He smiled with a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"
"Even at my age, I know when someone is hitting on me. Is that how you say it nowadays? Do you have a Mother Complex? Or do you think I'm rich? There are girls your age in class, I have no illusions about myself."
He smiled. "My dear Mary. You look nothing like my dear old mom, who in fact is 64, and 200 pounds, by the way. I didn't enroll in this class to hit on chicks, as you aptly put it. Truthfully, I always appreciated a mature female. I won't give you a litany of the whys and wherefores. I saw you in class and you made me smile. I like you, Mary. Of course, if you are rich, I won't hold it against you!"
So, I gave in, as you knew I would. The bar was pretty empty for a weeknight, Mick explained. I had wine from the box, which wasn't that bad over ice. He had beers. We played pool, and pinball, and some kind of video game. Anything invented after Pong is beyond me.
It was midnight and closing time before I knew it, and I was quite tipsy, I must say. My face hurt from smiling so much. Mick just had a natural funny way about him. We sat in a booth, sipping and talking.
