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I registered for school about two weeks later.
I was 30, and a quasi-freshman. The first time I walked on campus, it was everything I could do not to cry my face off. I felt, walking up the cement steps to the main office, like I was turning myself in. I guess I was, in a way- only the authority to whom I was surrendering was me, the me that I had been so thoroughly avoiding, sedating, whatever. It was as though, in quitting smoking and going to college, I was returning these medicines or disguises to the place from which they came. Whatever I was going to lose in the exchange was worth it to me to figure out what was under all that junk in the garage.
(By the way, "Junk in the garage" is starting to vaguely remind me of colloquialisms describing women's robust hindquarters, so I might abandon that metaphor, lest my very serious and sincere psychological diatribe instantly get "baby got back" stuck in everyone's head.)
School was transformative. I loved it. I was, as I feared, the old lady in the room, but whatever. Really. Whatever. I was smarter than I thought.
But I was still drinking, and loads. I was making enough money to afford it, so why not? It calmed me down, and I was soooooo busy. At minimum, when I was really trying not to drink, I would have two tall glasses of wine or two beers every night of the week. And on Friday and Saturday, many more. I would start when my son was heading to bed, and go to bed myself around midnight- 1 am. I woke up hungover every single morning of my life.
