The Writing Class & The Pipe Dream

I returned from England Sunday evening and actually fell asleep with my head still a couple inches above the pillow. Luckily, forward-thinker that I am, I had already set the alarm on my phone. Monday morning, it went off at 6 a.m. I rolled out of bed, stumbled blindly to the shower, and managed to drive across town for the first day of my summer writing class.

The class is aimed at teachers, and most of us have been involved with it for about two years now, but for some reason they change the location every six months. This phase was on the south side, and since I always get lost on the south side of town, I got to class about five minutes late. They’d already started going around the circle doing introductions and “This summer I’m...” stories. When my turn came, I apologized for coming in late and said that this summer, I’m doing a bit of traveling. Of course, they asked where, so I gave the brief overview – London, Dublin, work conference in Seattle, family week on Lake Huron, then off to Hawaii.



O Reader, if you could have seen the shock and indignation! You’d have thought I said I was flying to the moon in a diamond-studded space pod. While drinking champagne. And making out with Jude Law.

Then a woman on the other side of the room spoke up and articulated everybody’s sentiment in one huffy little retort: “Well, that’s because you don’t have kids.”

The rest of the week was great – I got lots of writing done, was very happy with the feedback I received, and just generally enjoyed bonding with the other students – but the whole time there was an undercurrent of tension. Half of the women there seemed bent on convincing me that I’d soon tire of gallivanting around the globe, realize how empty and meaningless my life is, and find some sensible boy with whom I could settle down and raise a little brood of ankle-biters. They kept writing pieces about how happy motherhood has made them and giving me significant looks. The other half was just blatantly bitter and jealous of my freedom. You know, like the terrorists.



I, frankly, can’t imagine any more rewarding way to spend a summer than traveling, nor can I figure why, at twenty-five, I should be worried about anything other than enjoying myself. As long as I’m happy and the bills get paid, I don’t think my priorities need reevaluating.

Eventually though, I may get a little lonely, but wouldn’t it be more fun to find a boy who isn’t very sensible? Then, instead of “settling down”, we could just pack our ankle-biters up and take them gallivanting with us.

This is my pipe dream.