Endless Waltz

A.A. asked me what I'd done before working at TS, and I couldn't really lie. Well, that's a lie right there. I could, but people are going to find out sooner or later. "Well, I went to UMCP. Then, I went to law school. Then, I captioned television programs for a while. Then I went to LM as a technical writer." I'd hoped that glossing over it and mentioning my time at NCI would have been a sufficient red herring. But no, people had to hone in on that.

And really, I guess I would do the same, were I in their shoes. We had three computer science majors, one systems engineering major, and little ol' english/law major me. What the hell am I doing there? You can't see it, but I'm smirking right now. Hell, somewhat unrelated, W.T. asked me why I wasn't a lawyer, and I gave him the pat answer. What the hell am I doing?

It isn't that I mind the question any more, and I don't feel too bitter about it. It is just, well, strange. I am a strange man. I am nowhere near the unique snowflake, but neither am I the dirty snowbank. Now that I think about it, if I met me on the street, and I did not know me, the first thought that would go through my mind would be "Damn, I did not know the heavens intended for someone this handsome to walk the earth." (Note that my making this statement means I think I am a sexy bitch.)

The second thought, once I engaged myself in conversation, would be "Damn, what's wrong with this guy? He went all the way through law school, and passed the bar, for nothing?" Time, lots of time, and perspective, have allowed me to disassociate myself from what pain remains. My mental warzone. It sucked, but it was my experience, my time. I still wish I'd never gone, and know that the person typing this would be completely different had I not. At the same time, days do pass where I don't consider myself as the professor at a third-rate college, the bookish academic with a couple of overwrought books and articles under his belt.

Law school, the bitterest medicine I've ever tasted, is now a distant memory, and I can finally come to terms with it. I really thought that would never happen. And I think that means that, if I can forgive that, I can forgive anything. I just need to get away from it for a long, long time, bitch, whine, and moan about it, and just bleed off the hurt. I think this also means I need horn-rimmed glasses, unkempt bangs, darker clothing, a guitar, and a seat at the local open-mic night at the coffee house.