Tapping the Glass

I just came from bursting into tears on a couch at the student housing office in Jones Hall.

I was really upset, because I had started the whole add-drop process this morning when I hit a brick wall at ten hours of credit.  The brainless robot web advisor just wouldn’t let me register for any more.  At first, I thought it had to do with the level of classes.  I tried registering for a lower level statistics class to test my theory.  It, the thing, the programmed thing that doesn’t bend rules, wouldn’t allow that either.  It told me I had to have a housing assignment and to call the housing number… so I did, and I explained my situation, and the lady said that I was under 21 and under 60 hours of credit (I think I have like 56.  ARGGRRHG SO STUPID), so I have to live on campus or at home with my parents if I want to be a full-time student. 

Is this 1930?  I’m surprised she didn’t ask me if I was wearing a skirt above my ankles either.  Or if I was betrothed yet.  I’m over 18…. WHY can’t I live on my own?

Well, anyway, I do live in a house in Denton, so I said that I lived at home and expected that I’d have to supply an electricity bill or something.

“Okay, then you need to fill out a form that you and your parents sign and have notarized.”

 

NOTARIZED?  Me and my parents?  What about people whose parents are dead?  What about people who are estranged, completely on their own?  They HAVE to live in your stupid dorm?  What are you worried will happen to them without you, TWU? 

The university hasn’t caught up to us new-fangled gals.

 

I still thought I was okay, thought I had time to bring the form to my mom this weekend and bring it back Tuesday, but then Sara mentioned that today was the last day for late registration.  EVERYTHING IS AGAINST ME.  Or everything is against change. 

First I went to the registrar and asked if there was any way I could force the registration and turn in the form later.  They kind of laughed and asked their supervisor, who said no, and I kind of said, “This is so fucking stupid” and they sent me to Housing.

 

As I walked across campus to get to Housing, scenes started filling my head, swirling around in a high-pressure whirlwind… Sitting at my dad’s dinner table on a visit home as he asks, “How many hours did you take this semester?” and I nervously twirl spaghetti and say a number less than twelve and try to act like I’m okay with it, which actually only adds to his conviction that I’m a lazy, directionless slacker hippie daughter.  Then there’s the puffing up like an agitated bird, my dad, a self-proclaimed “hard ass”, whose approach is generally to “get tough”, because people only make decisions based on their diligence or lack thereof, and it’s not possible to be confused, only to be a manipulating-the-system shirker.  He’s too accustomed to the environment of raising my stepsister, I think.  He’d be like, “Ange, that’s not okay.  We’re giving you money every month, because you’re supposed to be going to school full-time.”  But the disapproval will only make me feel like shit rather than uncover my extortionary plans and make me say, “You’re right, Dad.  Glad you’re here to keep me in line.”  Because he got a hypersensitive daughter who wants to please her parents, disapproval destroys her and makes her nervous to the point of breakdown. My mom would take a similar tough stance of “get yourself together”.  A sympathetic bunch.

Although now it only takes the possibility of disapproval… that’s when I started shaking and getting teary as I walked across campus, imagining going through the entire semester of shame. 

It’s not pressure to graduate sooner or anything.  It’s just them and the rest of my family.

“Oh, Angela, you’re a smart girl, why aren’t you living up to your potential?”

 

I made it to housing, though, and kept my voice from cracking long enough to explain the situation, that there was no way I could get a notarized form to them by 6 pm today, and they said I could talk to a higher person who could remove the hold but reinstate it later if I didn’t turn in the form.  It was exactly what I needed (and exactly what I had proposed to the helpless registrar people).  The dam was about to break, though, from all the pressure that had built up in the last twenty minutes, so I couldn’t even say thanks, I had to walk downstairs really quickly to retreat to a couch in the corner.  I made a plan to go back up later and say, “Sorry if I was rude.  I was just upset.  Thanks for your help.”

 

The fact that this made me so angry/frustrated/anxious/nervously-wrecked shows how fragile I am currently.  I wouldn’t have gotten so upset about something school-related a few years ago.