Deer In Headlights

[Law school is hurtling toward us faster than (insert your choice of very very fast moving object). I confided to John last night as we sat on the patio of the Cinch that I'm scared. How scared, I'm not sure he understood. I fucked up so badly, TWICE, as an undergrad, and I'm not so sure, thanks, that all the issues that caused me to fail have been resolved. I essayed the idea that, in contrast to the old days, I've got lots of people close to me ready to kick my ass into gear to make this work, and started listing them. John said, quietly and firmly, "It's not going to happen if YOU don't make it happen."]

[Gulp. Honey, I was trying to buck myself up by saying that you, Violet, and what sounds like a very small and supportive community of students and faculty at New College will be there as some sort of support system, there at least to keep me focused. Like most undergrads, I was dropped into UCSB like a kid with a very cruel parent is dropped into the deep end of a pool, with 18 sheltered years, a major chosen rather whimsically after reading one book, and no one to lean on or to offer much direction. I didn't thrive in those conditions, it scarred me, and I need to know that I'll have help so that scenario will not be repeated. It can't be, or we'll be facing some true Mariah Carey moments chez nous.]

[That's not what I said back to him, but I think he knew what my deer-in-headlights look, as I peered over my vodka-cranberry, was meant to convey. And I'm not worried: John lacks not the ability to nag; what causes bumps sometimes is time, place, and subject. And my ability to listen. Yes, I know how lucky I am, and I am excited. And god damned scared.]

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