On Being The Oldest Student In The Class

So there I sat, quietly, in my usual front row, far left seat, minding my own business, taking notes, paying attention, and enjoying the discussion. The professor, a fine lady with an accomplished academic career, was talking about her subject with great vigor. Out of the blue, she made a comment about her age relative to the subject, and then apparently decided that the class needed another example of late middle age, and so threw my name into the arena! It was A...... this, and A...... that, and "at our age" this, and so forth. It was appalling! If there had been a trapdoor under my seat, I would have exited the classroom immediately. I had arrived, I thought, at a point in this semester where my presence in halls and stairwells and the library was known and commonplace. I had even allowed myself the vainglorious moment or two of thinking that I really was a part of the academic experience, part of the student body, like. I had imagined, however briefly, that I belonged in this wonderful environment.

Well, I do belong in this environment, no matter what anyone says or thinks......