All women do not desire the same kind of person as a partner. Sure, everyone thinks certain symmetrical superstars are good looking, but even that is subjective.
I often refer to Gary from ThirtySomething as my ideal man, because he checked so many of the boxes. Someone who appreciated literature and actually tried to save the world. Of course, he was fictitious – which means that my “ideal” man simply never existed. But my ideals were fairly consistent over my lifetime.
In my youth, I liked guys with long unruly hair who were tall and thin. The hair was the important thing.
As I got older, I quickly determined that what I wanted most was a man who saw the world as I did, with the ability to laugh at its ridiculousness. I wanted someone with a sense of humor, who appreciated the irony that I saw everywhere. If a man didn’t think my jokes were funny – as they were often too dry to notice they were jokes – then it was unlikely they’d truly appreciate me.
Then I learned that the people who understood my jokes were, more likely than not, intelligent. This didn’t mean that I was intelligent, but the people who understood me – and the people who made me laugh – frequently seemed to be much smarter than me. [Side note: I married such a man and he is definitely more intelligent than I am.]
Someone who appreciated music, literature and the art of making movies, and someone who cared about saving the world … well, that would have been an added bonus.
So as a drunk, I was looking for someone smart, someone funny, and someone with long hair. Again: Gary from ThirtySomething. (And he wasn’t even a concept at the time.)
What I found in Larry was someone with long hair. And to be honest, his hair wasn’t all that long. It did stick out of the back of his helmet, so that intrigued me.
But as I was going to learn the hard way, Larry was not quite the level of brilliance that I wanted, and his sense of humor and mine were wildly divergent.
This doesn’t mean that everyone wouldn’t have wanted to date Larry. After all, Larry believed that anyone would be lucky to have him. And there is someone for everyone; I truly believe that.
I just also believe that his idea of “funny” and “okay” were unlike any of my ideas of “funny” and “okay.”
Larry did not make me laugh. He did not understand my jokes. He did not get me. And the more I got to know Larry, the less I liked him.
But I had nowhere to go, nowhere else to live. College wasn’t going to last forever, and I didn’t want to crawl back to my parents. Plus, I could drink freely with Larry.
And I was incredibly interested in his world, in the biker lifestyle, in the culture. I found biker life to be absolutely fascinating. I wanted to be free, which Larry promised, from all the angst caused by whatever was causing the angst. Larry assured me that the angst was caused by authority – the government especially – and that we would be “free” because we didn’t need to care about anything except being free.
He was also deathly afraid of being arrested, so he became friends with all the local police and tried not to do anything illegal. Well, except drugs.
And I had no idea at the time that the angst was actually caused by me.
And that the “man” I was seeking was actually myself.
After my encounter(s) with Todd, it became obvious that I didn’t care at all about the sanctity of marriage. I felt very guilty for going out with Todd behind Bonnie’s back, but I thought almost nothing about Todd’s wife. In fact, I didn’t even ask if he was still married because I didn’t care.
I cared that I was bored that night, and that someone offered to spend time drinking with me. I sure wasn’t studying. Drinking was everything.
Going out with Todd to get drunk for free seemed like a no-brainer.
But when Larry showed up one weekend with his colleague and band member, Leo, in tow, marriage was suddenly the most important thing.
Larry pulled up on his bike outside the dorm, but this time there was Leo, the bassist, standing there, too. I couldn’t figure it out.
“Hey Baby,” Larry beamed. “I brought somebody for Bonnie!” He waved his arm at Leo, who smiled coyly under his thick black mustache.
“You really didn’t need to bring someone for Bonnie,” I said.
“Yeah,” Larry laughed. “But I told Leo about them fuckin’ tits!” He laughed again.
I giggled along. My job, as sub-human female, was to giggle along.
This was funny? Did Leo really ride 100 miles on a motorcycle to see some young girl’s breasts?
Leo wasn’t laughing. I got the feeling that Leo wasn’t planning to ogle anyone’s tits, and that he actually showed up because he enjoyed riding his motorcycle.
I went inside without the guys and told Bonnie that Larry’d brought his friend, Leo, “for” her.
“I don’t want someone for me!” she said. Then, realizing she was stuck: “What’s he like?”
I said, “He’s really nice, and he’s funny, but he’s old. And he’s married with two kids.”
“Kids?!?” Bonnie nearly shrieked. “I don’t want anything to do with him!”
Bonnie was planning to become a teacher; we both adored kids. We weren’t going to do anything that might hurt a child.
“Let’s just go out and get drunk,” I said. “Larry can hang with Leo and we can do whatever we want.”
“Fine,” Bonnie said. “What choice do I have?”
We had lots of choices, but neither of us realized that. We just went out and got drunk.
Fortunately, Leo wasn’t the slightest bit interested in cheating on his wife, wrecking his marriage, losing his children, or even flirting with Bonnie. He was a forty-something man who’d matured lightyears beyond Larry, possibly because he’d found a reason to grow up and chosen a reasonable life partner.
Larry had chosen me.
And for some reason I was already beginning to forget, I’d chosen Larry.
Years later, Bonnie and I went to a Marriott to drink. We guessed that we’d find more interesting clientele at a hotel than at a shot-and-beer joint. Probably we were also looking for cocaine.
Not coincidentally, there were men with money at the Marriott. And we quickly found two guys who wanted us to go to their rooms with them. As usual, Bonnie and I chose to stay together in one room to be “safe.”
Both men were married, but “my” guy insisted upfront that we would not have sex. We could fool around, he said, but he didn’t want to cheat on his wife. Then he laughed.
By then, I knew this wasn’t funny at all.
But I was very happy about not being forced to have sex in order to drink. In fact, I suggested that playing drinking games might be a better use of our time.
I was only in it for the alcohol.
Always.
In the eighties, sexism was widely accepted by society – meaning, most women just put up with it. Any episode of 1980’s television will provide multiple examples of the commonplace sexist slurs and innuendos that were barely questioned.
Though the “Me Too” movement lifted one eyelid to see what’s been here all along, I doubt that any progress has been made in biker culture, even in the 21st century. There’s an understanding by all biker chicks that, upon taking one’s place on the back of your “old man’s” motorcycle, it’s okay to be treated by men in a sub-human fashion.
For me, this started with Larry’s inability to use my actual name. Larry introduced me to other people as “my old lady.” And for everything else, Larry called me “Baby.”
So I originally thought “Baby” was a term of endearment. And with Larry, that term of endearment rolled off his tongue like Italian in Italy.
Larry’s gravelly “Baby” sounded beautiful. I felt appreciated, special, loved. No one had ever nicknamed me before.
Deep down, a part of me worried about the implied reference to an infant. Larry was old enough to be my father, and sometimes I questioned his reasoning for calling me by the same word that, I’m sure, he likely once used to refer to his daughter, who was almost my age.
But I squashed that thought every time it surfaced.
Then I started to notice that I wasn’t the only person Larry called “Baby.”
When he talked to his male friends and colleagues – heck, even when he met guys at Mount Union – Larry always said, “Hey, Man.” Sometimes this was followed by “How ya doin’?” in a jovial manner. Men were always called “Man.” Sometimes they were called “Buddy,” but only if “Man” had already been used.
But women were never called anything but “Baby.” Their ages were irrelevant. All the women at the bar were Baby, including the owner. All the women requesting songs from his band were called Baby.
To the cashier at the 7-11: “Gimme a pack of Winstons, Baby, and a beef jerky.”
To the gas station attendant: “Ten bucks on seven, Baby, and I’ll be back for the change.”
To the bartender: “Gimme a Miller Lite, Baby, and one for my ol’ lady. And keep ’em comin’!”
We ate breakfast out nearly every day. I thought eating breakfast with Larry was the cutest thing I’d ever seen, his communication techniques unique and adorable. I’d never been with someone so self-confident or self-sufficient, so I had no idea he was often just arrogant.
The waitress would come to our table and she’d say, “What can I get for you today?”
Larry would say, “Number two with bacon and hash browns.”
She’d say, “How would you like your eggs?”
And Larry would say, “Lookin’ right at me, Baby.”
Then he’d smile broadly, as if this were the singularly most brilliant description of eggs ever.
He did this every, single time we went out for breakfast: Lookin’ right at me, Baby.
Interestingly, the waitresses all seemed to know what he meant. If they didn’t, he would just repeat it with the word “up” included.
“Two eggs up. Lookin’ right at me, Baby.” Then the smile.
I am not sure what would have happened if we’d ever had a male take our order at a restaurant. He may have been forced to order pancakes.
If he knew how to do that, I never saw it happen.
The night that Bonnie’s ex-boyfriend came to visit campus was … memorable.
After Todd called her, Bonnie shrieked, “He’s coming to see me!” nine billion times.
Todd was sexy, rough and dark. Bonnie had adored him since she’d met him, years prior in her hometown, and he similarly adored her, but they’d never officially been a couple.
That’s because Todd was married.
Bonnie was thrilled that he was coming to visit her at college, so she spent all day getting ready. She did her five-hour hair and makeup routine while I sat in her room smoking cigarettes and drinking beer, waiting.
Todd showed up three hours late, with some guy named Tim.
Bonnie jumped on Todd, kissing him intensely for about five minutes. Tim and I stood there awkwardly, two redheads waiting for the brunettes to finish.
Bonnie and I were bombed before they arrived; the guys were also rather drunk upon arrival. We went to a bar for a few minutes but didn’t waste any time in finding a place to settle down for the evening.
We saw a sleazy hotel with peeling paint and a red awning over the half-lit vacancy sign. It had cheap rooms and a night clerk who kept reservations on a carbon copy notepad.
He asked: “All night or by the hour?”
None of us knew how to answer that.
“All night!” Bonnie decided – so we started counting cash, trying to figure out how much we had for this adventure.
While we counted, the night clerk spoke again. “What name for the room?”
Todd started to give his full name: “Todd ….”
“No!” Bonnie interrupted. “Don’t give them your real name!” He was married, after all.
Todd was not the brightest bulb. “What name should I give him then?”
The night clerk waited.
I started laughing and couldn’t stop, watching the stoic night clerk. Bonnie started laughing, too. Todd and Tim stared at us.
Tim said, “Just use my name!”
At the same time Bonnie yelled, “Dodd! Use Dodd Smith!” Then acknowledging Tim, she hooted: “Dodd and Dim!”
Todd turned to the night clerk. “Dodd and Dim,” he said seriously. “Dodd and Dim Smith.”
Bonnie and I wailed with laughter; nothing ever said had been as funny as “Dodd and Dim.” Tears poured from our eyes and we could barely stand.
The night clerk never smiled or blinked. “How do you spell that?”
“D-O-D-D,” Todd began.
Screeching with laughter all the way down the hall, we reached our room in hysterics. “DODD AND DIM!” we screamed. “DODD AND DIM!” Getting the key into the door was all but impossible and when the door finally swung open, it smacked into a cheap dresser, knocking off several drawer handles.
This was nearly as funny as Dodd and Dim.
Bonnie and I literally fell onto the floor, rolling around on disgusting red shag carpet, crying and laughing until Bonnie finally stopped long enough to say: “I need a beer!” – bringing us back to our senses and calming us enough to crack open four new cans.
I don’t remember if we stayed all night.
I do remember, though, weeks later when Todd called again.
Bonnie was out with a guy named Joe – but Todd asked for me.
“Ya wanna hang out?”
I did.
Todd and I went back to that same motel, this time paying the hourly rate. He again used the name Dodd Smith, but there wasn’t anything funny about it this time.
It took me years to forgive myself for that second visit – not because Todd was married, but because Bonnie loved him with all her heart.
My dad made a career working in public relations for colleges and universities. So when it came time to take Public Relations at college, I was excited. I thought I knew all there was to know about the subject.
I am not sure how I acquired that belief. As a youngster, I frequently visited my dad at his office and determined that he talked on the phone a lot. I had no idea to whom he spoke or what they discussed, or why anyone paid him to do it.
So if anyone had asked me to define public relations, I would have said that it had something to do with relationships with the public. But I knew literally nothing about the field.
When I took it, Public Relations was a night class. I remember this forty years later because I instantly determined that I could squeeze in a quick Hood burger before going to class every week.
By this point in my college/drinking career, I was drinking every day – so a burger and a beer seemed like a reasonable way to prep for night class.
Every Thursday, I would go to The Hood and order my Hood burger and a draft beer. The beer would be gone in two minutes. I did not wait for a waitress to bring me another one; The Hood was not that kind of bar.
I simply stepped up to the bar and refilled my glass – so that by the time the burger arrived, I’d had three or four beers and could barely eat. I would shove down the burger, though, along with another beer or three, because that was “dinner.” Then I would stumble across the universe – always late – and climb the steps to my classroom where I would fall loudly into my seat, reeking of alcohol and barely able to sit up.
My professor, Harry Paidas, supervised my dear friend, Debbie, during her on-campus job. Debbie was responsible and never drank. So after weeks of my tardy, disastrous night class appearances, Harry asked Debbie about me.
“She should be great at PR!” Debbie said, always enthusiastically supportive. “Her dad does PR for colleges.”
Harry thought for a moment. “Moore…” he said, and then startled. “Her dad is Keith Moore?!?”
“Yep,” Debbie said.
Harry nearly fell over. “THE Keith Moore. That’s her dad?”
“Uh-huh,” Debbie said. Then she looked at Harry, who seemed suddenly pale and queasy. “Sorry,” she said.
I’m not sure if she was apologizing for me, my dad or herself.
In class, Harry never let on that he knew about my dad, and he never made me feel like an idiot. He watched me week after week, barely able to function, and probably shook his head with silent disappointment. Some days I didn’t show up for class at all; I simply couldn’t get out of the bar on time. It got worse as the weeks passed.
In spite of my drinking, I think I turned in my work mostly on time. I got mostly passing grades on tests.
And at the end of the semester, I actually knew what the term “public relations” meant. For those who are interested, it’s now often called Corporate Communications. That’s a bit easier to understand.
Somehow I passed Public Relations in spite of myself. It was the only night class I ever took.
My dad continued to excel in his field, becoming even more legendary in higher education. And I went on to drink even more fervently, widening the gap until it was a chasm.
Today I have 31 years clean and sober.
I didn’t do this on my own; I couldn’t have done it without Alcoholics Anonymous. I wanted very much to do it on my own. I wanted more than anything to not need any help.
And since I’d gone to a rehab in 1989, I thought I knew what was required to stay clean. I thought I could do it on my own. But in 1992, when I was so beaten down that I was incapable of getting back up, AA reached out and pulled me back onto my feet.
I still did everything wrong. AA’s suggestions were not suggestions I liked. Suggestions like “hang with the women” and “stay out of relationships for the first year” were particularly challenging for me.
I wanted to live my life without anyone telling me what to do. I didn’t want to make my bed, cook my own food, wash pots and pans, empty the garbage or take care of my aging car. I didn’t want to do anything to take care of myself; I wanted life to be “fun.”
I still have trouble with responsibility. My bed is made but it’s not beautiful. I am very lucky to have a man in my life who makes enough money to take care of almost everything, so I don’t mind taking out the garbage because he hates doing it. I am very blessed to have so much materially, but mostly to have so much love.
Still life is sometimes not fun. And when I realized this, I was almost 30 years old.
I’ve always seen things through rose-colored glasses, but not because I was optimistic. I am the biggest pessimist I know. But I have forced the world around me to be fun. Last week, I was nearly hysterical with laughter at the patients in a doctor’s office – all noisy and grouchy and ridiculous. I’ve spent my life making games out of the mundane, keeping myself entertained in spite of the horrors of reality.
When I was six, my favorite game was traveling to imaginary worlds. In my backyard, I pushed a “button” of peeling paint on a pole, then I’d spin around and around. When I got dizzy I’d fall down, wait for the head spin to subside, then “awake” in a new land – outer space, a dog sanctuary, another country, a zoo, an amusement park – anything I could imagine.
This should have been a clue that someday, I’d be … me. When I’m bored I still play this game, but without spinning. Inside my head, I can put myself anywhere I want.
Lately I’ve been visiting the past.
It was a year ago, on my 30th anniversary, that I decided to start telling my story. It took me awhile to really start delving deep into the details. Now sometimes my writing is too powerful for my brain; I’m fully reliving those years. When I sleep, I’m right there with people from high school or college or post-college stupors. Then I wake up wondering where I am.
I am so, so grateful to find that I’m in my huge, comfortable bed and not in a puddle of mud or vomit. I’m thrilled to make myself a healthy smoothie for breakfast instead of drinking from a bedside can of beer with cigarette ash in it. For 31 years, I haven’t offered my body in exchange for drugs. For 31 years, I’ve been able to make choices that won’t hurt me or the people I love.
Thanks, God, for my sobriety and for my life. I’m eternally grateful.
In spite of my appearance of “normalcy” during my senior year, I suddenly had a new place to live, no parents determining my actions, and an ancient boyfriend with a very different way of life. I realized quickly that I needed to find a way to enmesh my separate lives without losing my college friends.
Larry felt confident that all the young girls admired him – which was nowhere near the truth – so he had no qualms about visiting Mount Union. But Bonnie wasn’t sure what to do with Larry. She liked the bold step that I’d taken, breaking away from my own parents while still acquiring an education. But for some reason that I couldn’t fathom, she wasn’t immediately crazy about him.
Having Larry visit my personal haven wasn’t my favorite idea. I didn’t mind roaring off on the motorcycle for all the world to see, but I didn’t want Larry to actually spend time there. I’d spent three years enjoying life with people my own age, creating my own space, loving intellectuals, laughing with people who understood my sense of humor, partying the way partying should be, and making friends I adored. In other words, I finally felt like I’d found a place where I belonged.
I didn’t want to demolish all that by sharing weekends with a bushy-bearded old man who thought fart jokes were funny and who’d only graduated from high school – and he’d done that before I was born.
But Larry was now my life, so I didn’t have much choice.
Clonking through the dorm in his heavy boots, Larry smiled without letting his cigarette drop from his lips. “I’m finally in college!” he said, way too loud, throwing ape-arms above his head in triumph. “My mom’s gonna be so fuckin’ proud!”
Larry thought this was very, very funny. He later shared his joke with all of his friends and many strangers.
I wondered how old Larry’s mom was, if she was even still alive. If she’d wanted him to go to college, why hadn’t he gone? I’m guessing brains and money were lacking.
I wanted to get off campus as quickly as possible, so Larry took Bonnie and me to bars we’d never seen before. Larry bought all the drinks, and Bonnie and I partied for free.
Larry was happy that I was happy. And I was always happy when I was drinking. Until I wasn’t.
We went to a crowded bar called The Red Rose with wood-paneled wall-to-wall people, but not a single college student. There were a couple of bushy-bearded guys wearing leather at the bar, matching the motorcycles we’d seen outside. There was no dance floor or country band, so I browsed through songs on the jukebox and played darts.
We got wasted and then I snuck Larry through the window into my loft bed.
The next night we went to The Elm Inn, where the parking lot was full of motorcycles and the bar itself was nearly empty. It took awhile for me to realize that the front room was not the only place to sit. Bikers appeared seemingly out of nowhere, then disappeared again through a door that looked like it led into someone’s house. We didn’t dare go into that door.
Not that night, anyway.
I’d thought all the bars in town revolved around college students but apparently not. Alliance had its own biker bars and its own non-college population. Students had referred to these folks as “townies” for years – and suddenly, I’d been thrust among them.
Little did I know how deep into that population I would dive.
While I was in college, Larry started building a life for himself in Pittsburgh. He got a job – which I didn’t know about for months, because I didn’t care – and he put together a gigging band, which I cared about instantly.
Larry had been playing country music since I was born. The highlight of his musical career was the night he opened for Hank Williams, Jr. in the ’70s. After my Firm experience, this felt like touching fame again.
Larry Wayne and the Wranglers even made an album of country cover songs. The album’s sleek silver front featured a contemplative Larry standing in cowboy boots with his guitar … and looking like he might have once been my age.
Briefly. A long time ago.
I played that album and stared at that picture and worked hard to fall in love with the man I knew. Larry’s voice was smooth, melodic, professionally mixed. The songs were new to me and classic to the world. I’d listen and choose favorites and memorize lyrics and admire his young voice and wonder why I couldn’t have known him when he opened for Hank Williams, Jr. … when I was 8.
And then 36-year-old Larry would pick up the guitar and sing and magically, he’d become a country star.
So when Larry created a band, I was enraptured. It didn’t matter that country music had once made me so nauseous, I’d begged my dad to pull over so I could vomit. It didn’t matter that I found the music simplistic and crude. It didn’t matter that I loved George Michael, Robert Smith and Boy George – each the antithesis of country music. It didn’t matter that most of the songs Larry sang were written before I was born.
The only thing that mattered is that Larry sang on stage.
All those nights spent staring at polyester dancers were instantly replaced by nights staring at my superstar boyfriend. He knew ten thousand songs, could play anything anyone requested, and had a pretty decent band backing him, too, although for me, the backing band was a tiny bit of a problem.
Even though I insisted on ignoring Larry’s age and imagining him as the guy on the silver album cover, it was hard to ignore the ages of the band members.
Larry’s friend, Leo, who worked with him at whatever job he’d found, was a strong bassist and a decent backup singer, but he had a wife and two kids, a paunch belly, a black mustache that stuck out from under his nose like a giant caterpillar, and caterpillar eyebrows, too.
Larry’s also-paunched drummer, Tom, was called Stogie because he smoked cigars non-stop. These stunk to high heaven and forced me to frequently look at him, ignorantly holding that cigar stub in his mouth. Stogie had no hair at all and, as a modern college student, I hadn’t known anyone who was actually bald until this time.
My favorite of Larry’s band members was Steve, a pedal steel guitar player, mainly because I’d never seen a pedal steel before. Steve showed me in his spare time how the pedals and keys worked, fascinating me. Steve sang one song, She’s About a Mover, which I loved dearly, and I believed Steve had invented it. Steve looked old enough to be my grandfather.
Larry was the clear leader, the frontman and the business man, pulling in $20 a night for every one of the guys. As I watched him bring that old music to life, I found a new way to fall in love.
Bonnie and I did not miss a beat when we got back to McMaster Hall. We continued drinking every night, partying like wild women on weekends, and sleeping through classes much of the time. We continued to drink before every party, go home with our men d’jour, and buck authority at every opportunity.
But Mount Union College was no longer the beautiful experience I’d had during my first three years. Classes were getting in the way of my partying. I no longer got an “allowance” from my parents. And having a live-in boyfriend changed nothing about my moral compass so I found myself doing the same things I’d always done – but with the added component of guilt on the side.
I wish I could say that calling Larry’s apartment “home” had some impact on my behavior, but it never occurred to me to be faithful to the man. If anything, I felt a little more daring than I had been the previous year because I knew I’d be riding into the sunset on the back of a Harley Davidson at the end of college.
So Bonnie and I – and anyone who wandered near – partied with abandon at every given opportunity. When there were no opportunities given, we made our own. Sometimes Thursday morning was reason enough to drink. More often than not, we drank in the dorm, then went to a party, then went to the bar until it closed. If there were no parties happening, we just skipped that step.
Sometimes Larry would ride the two hours to campus on Fridays to take me home for the weekend. He’d show up mid-afternoon right there in the campus center parking lot where parents had dropped off their babies and deemed it “safe.” He’d let his motor BRRM-BA-DUMM-BRM BRRM-BA-DUMM-BRM until he’d woken every napping student within a five-mile radius.
Larry wore the same black leather jacket every day, chaps for long trips like this, and always those beastly black boots. He’d get off the bike slowly, amidst the Greek-clad upperclassmen steering carefully away from him, wide-eyed and unsmiling, trying to safely reach the campus center. Oblivious, Larry’s cheap metal rings sparkled in the sun as his calloused fingers scraped through his distressed hair.
Since I couldn’t see him from my dorm window my friends would stare momentarily, then rush to let me know he was out there. I could hear his Harley from my room so I’d already be pulling on my boots and leather jacket.
By the time I reached Larry, he’d be smoking a cigarette and leaning in all that leather against the equally black leather saddle, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Upon noticing me, he’d break into that crooked-tooth smile that I’d begun to love.
“Hey Baby,” he’d say, sometimes lifting me into the air and spinning me around, other times planting a hard kiss on my lips, owning me for all the world to see. Then Larry would flick his cigarette into the campus center parking lot while I lit one for the ride, and off we’d ride.
At the Pennsylvania state line, which wasn’t marked on the back roads, Larry would pull over. We’d both get off the bike while he opened the saddle bags and removed the helmets. Pennsylvania had a helmet law; Ohio did not. Freedom ended at that line: we had to wear our “brain buckets” the rest of the way.
And on our way back to Mount Union, we’d stop at that same line to free ourselves again. But I rarely felt free knowing what was ahead.
Returning to college with a new home address made absolutely no difference in my lifestyle, except that I no longer tried to refrain from drinking seven nights a week. I’d been daily drinking for so long, it seemed silly to stop for things like “classes” and “exams.”
It was my senior year when I decided to take the easiest classes I could find – one of which was anatomy.
Body parts were fascinating to me, but I knew literally nothing about how anything worked. So I took the class. I thought it would be interesting.
Plus, it was taught by the football coach, Coach Kehres, who was very easy on the eyes. I could be bored to tears and still wildly entertained. And if I got bored with looking at him, the class was required for anyone majoring in physical education – which means the room was full of football players.
Win-win! I signed up without thinking twice about it.
Before my first anatomy test, in spite of my regular drinking, I actually studied. Learning bones and organs took more effort than I’d expected. I learned everything I could, and then I wrote down what I’d learned on the test the next day.
When I left the exam room, I thought I’d done pretty well.
Two days later, Coach Kehres returned our graded tests. Everyone groaned. My “pretty well” wasn’t quite as good as I’d hoped. I got a 32%.
Failing that test was a real eye-opener. First of all, I realized that I should never, ever study medicine. Science was really not my thing.
Second, I was a senior. If I failed a class, I might not graduate. And I didn’t think my parents would pay for a fifth year of college, especially since I had moved out of their house. And I couldn’t exactly call them anymore to discuss my options.
So I walked straight from the classroom and to the registrar to drop the class.
“It’s too late to drop the class,” said the registrar. “But you could take it pass/fail.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means that the class won’t affect your GPA,” she said. “But if you want the credit, you’ll need to pass.”
I considered the 32%. I wondered if I could raise my grade to a percentage that would mean I could pass. My only option was to try – and try hard.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take it pass/fail.” I would have rather thrown my anatomy book in the garbage, but I still had all those football players to admire.
A few days later, Coach Kehres found me ordering spaghetti in the cafeteria line.
“Kur-stin, right?” he said, pronouncing my name all wrong.
I looked up and melted a little.
“Yes?” I said, somewhat terrified. The coach had never spoken to me directly before.
“I hear you’re taking my class pass/fail,” he said.
“Uh-huh,” I said. Could he force me to take it for a grade? I was getting more scared by the minute.
“Next time you want to do that, come and talk to me first,” Coach Kehres said. “You had the highest grade in the class.”
I blinked and looked up at him. “I did?”
“You did,” he said. Then he walked away.
I stood holding my tray of spaghetti, wondering which way to turn.
At the end of that semester, there was a “P” on my transcript; I never took another science course again.
