söndag, mars 16, 2008

Summer School

"Hey, Mom, I checked it out. NYU has a summer program I can get into, with the finance courses I want. I can stay at my FIT campus, or move over to the Village ... but anyway, if it is ok with you, I'd like to sign up for a class."

"Well, yeah, it's ok," I told her, "but just one class? You'll be down there the whole summer and just one five-week class that meets twice a week for two hours?"

Helicopter mom? Please. I never even liked pushing swings in the park. "Pump! Pump, damnit," I used to scream at them from just beyond kicking distance. But I guess already at 18 months they wanted to play mind games with me and wouldn't cooperate. It seems that no matter how old they get, the need for me to send the "Try Again" prompt is always surfacing.

"Well, um, each class I sign up for costs four thousand dollars and change. If I sign up for two, that would be almost ten thousand dollars and that's just the first session."

I paused long enough to see the figure "$10,000" hanging above me in the air, just beyond my reach. I had to wait longer than usual for "never say die" to surface.

"Look, we've got grad school covered with your eggs, right? You'll be 21 by then and the free market will kick in. Do you think you can find a summer gig outside of the glamorous world of minimum-wage retail, you know something that actually pays, something with "VIP" in the name? I've heard big numbers in the news lately. Two courses each session, and you'd be golden. C'mon, c'mon. Try again."