I suppose it was only a matter of time. And so here I am, about 352 days into my alumna life, already contemplating the wha' if, pronounced whiff and proclaimed with a curious sniff, of post-graduate studies.
Not the whole she-bang, she doth protest a tad too much to her blog lurking husband in off-key, William Hung fashion because he is reading this and learning of it for the first time. Hi honey, love you. How's your day at work going? Missing you :)
No I'm just talking about one little course. Maybe two. But no more than 10. Max 15.
And in the spirit of confession, permit me to admit that earning an MFA in Creative Writing is something I would consider way, ultra-cool, if only because it would afford same cynical hubby creative license to bastardize the someday distinction tacked onto my name as he saw fit. MFA. Think of the possibilities, hub!
He has a knack for that kind of thing, you see. He used to work at a company called IMP that he aptly dubbed Institute for Mental People some two months after joining them. To my credit, I never teased him that it takes one to know one because he did, after all, manage to escape the institute a year later, sanity partially intact. And now he works for a little aviation firm here in the Pacific Northwest whose name sounds suspiciously like Bo' Ring (said with slow resignation). But you'd never hear from him. No.sure.ee.
But I made a little promise, emphasis on little. OK, OK, OK, I'll admit. I kinda sorta didn't exactly promise so much as not respond, which is not to be confused with my reluctant acquiescence to that annoying obey vow that got wedged in most hegemonically after love and honour way back in the day. I tell ya, how to put further dampness on an otherwise perfectly auspicious if rather rainy wedding day).
In the extreme best interest of staying married to same multi-talented hubby though, I promised by said, silent omission that I would not, could not get my Masters.
Not in a year, he made it clear. No bribes of beer, nor a shed of tears, nor threatening jeers will dissuade my Dear. Nor in a decade, his mind was made. Let it fade, thus is forbade.
Yeah, it's true. Ask hubby what the D in my late-in-life degree stands for and he'll tell you in no uncertain terms. Done.
Now before you begin starting to see a pattern between me ignoring the obey in my vows and harbouring these forbidden, disobedient thoughts of further studies, allow me to wax etymological a moment on the history of the word obey. Obey, (first used circa 1290 CE), actually means "to pay attention to, give ear, listen and hear."
So while I'm hearing hubby and really paying attention to him on this issue, I'm also giving ear to this incessant voice inside me that's whispering, one more class. Just one.
A short one. Just so I can learn a little something about the fine art of non-fiction writing. So I can write a book. A short one. A little spiritual memoir. Which incidentally, rhymes with Renoir. It will be equally beautiful, me hopes. And then I'll publish it. And then it'll make money. And we'll become rich. And famous. And then hubby can say he loved and supported me when. And I can say that I'm sure glad I obeyed his sage advice to follow my passion.
And then I'll wink at him but not before grabbing him a beer from below deck aboard our new sailboat. So we can clink glasses ~ champagne flute to icy beer mug ~ which, when raised high in the air towards the setting sun, reflect as much love as light ~ and then we'll toast our newfound success.
Shameless, belated bribe? You bet. You don't stay married 19 years without learning a trick or two.