It's My Pizza Party

My work at the community college tutoring center had an end-of-the-semester pizza party, and all the students and tutors lined up in our congested space to get their share of the pies, which were stacked two feet tall. My boss, serving with a plastic knife, made a Herculean effort not to touch any of the pieces with her fingers. Consequently, the line grew longer and longer and longer.

As I stood there waiting for my slice of pepperoni, my thoughts grew solemn. This celebration was not mine; it would mean the end of my tutoring job until the next semester. I had anticipated for this fact, but the groups of students cheerfully consuming their free lunch between finals made me feel out of action nonetheless, a feeling that is a frequent aspect of reality when living with bipolar disorder.

Finally my turn, I got a serving and then made my way slowly towards the door. En route, I ran into an old tutoring buddy of mine that I hadn't seen in ages. I stopped dead in my tracks, now grateful that the line was almost at a standstill.

It was my friend G. Warmly, we exchanged hellos and hugs. Making a quick assessment, I determined that G. looked his age, as I look mine, which is "Older Than The Students." He still had his cherubic cheeks, winsome smile, and teddybearish aspect that I remembered so well. I asked him about his life, and his eyes lit up when he talked about Math, a subject that leaves me cold.

Once G. joined me outside, he shared about two dozen wedding photos that he "just happened to have in his backpack." We talked a bit about the future. His was crowded with possibilities, teaching at SDSU, going for a PhD, or maybe teaching high school. He and his new bride were flourishing.

After our yackity-yack, G. gave me his card, which I stowed in my pocket, and I promised to call to get together over the summer for dinner.

We said our goodbyes, and I headed back into the tutoring center, looking at all the students and their earnest expressions. Everyone was hunkered down for more work as finals loomed ahead. I looked down at my name tag, which I wouldn't be wearing much longer, and wondered if the future loomed ahead or stretched out with possibilities. Some looming, some stretching, maybe?

I took G.'s card out of my pocket and took a look. It was a card for math tutoring, with a solid, respectable photograph in high gloss. I thought of my own card, pretty, semi-floral, no gloss.

Could it be that it's just a case of "To Each His Own"? There's no way on earth I would ever be a Calculus teacher, just as there is no way that G. would write haiku for kicks. There is no way to trade my life for someone else's, G.'s, the students, my boss, so I might as well quit trying and quit comparing. There are possibilities for my own productivity, as long as I keep my mind and heart open.

Although I know these things, and I've been told them over and over, the universe must keep reminding me.

In the end, it seems the pizza party was for me.