Of Mice, Men and Midgets

This post comes with a disclaimer. There will be no mice in this email; a minor mention of men; but several references to midgets. Sort of.

It's week 11 of the semester. Can we say 'burnt-out'. The life of an academic is as far from illustrious as one can get. Sure, you get to walk around the campus with a slight 'who's the boss?' swagger. Sure, you get to raid the stationary cabinet without guilt. Sure, you get to rock into your office whenever the hell you feel like. But that's where the glamour ends.

Aspiring academics: beware.

I'm up to my ears with marking. First years do not know how to write for the most part. Applause applause when a comma is in the right spot. I want to commit harikari, or do a kamikaze dive into a tree in the carpark without a stack helmet on. I spent 50 minutes of my life last week debating with a very stubborn student why he was to avoid colloquial language in his essays. He accused me of being elitist. I replied: "Why do you think you're here?" 50 minutes. Like stabbing a very blunt spoon in your eyeball.

For those not in the know, I have been taking up rowing lessons. 7 weeks in to the course. The sport conjures grand visions of gliding down the river in the wee hours of the morning - the visage of graceful poise. I come close.

And then I end up wrapping myself around a navigation pole in the middle of the river, surrounded by jellyfish.

I save the single scull. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for my dignity. I have an attentive audience of regular rowers onshore watching as I re-enact the sinking of the Titanic.

I am told by our teacher, whom I call Grandma Bootcamp Betty (because she scares the be-jesus out of me and is about 60 years old), that there is a "social row" on at the club on Sunday. I turn up thinking: 'new friends' and 'sausage sizzle'.

Turns out it is a practice session for an upcoming regatta. Needless to say, I do not make any new friends and there are no sausages in sight... and I could make a joke about the male rowers in their tight bike pants at this point... but I won't... but it's too late now... so never mind.

The young instructor, who's a bit of a dish (only because he's not an 18 year old student or a 50 year old codger), tells me to join the female squad for the evening. That means I will be learning on the fly when everyone else has been training for months in a boat for 8.

I stuff up several times - 'catching crabs' they call it when your oar drags under water. Usually, that sort of phrase makes you giggle stupidly - but when it means that the boat comes to a complete standstill on account of little old you, it sounds a helluva lot less funny. And never mind that the instructor keeps calling out words of support on several occasions, and I am quoting verbatim: "DON'T WORRY CHRISTINE! WE ALL CATCH CRABS ONCE IN A WHILE!". Can we say 'red face'?

When it's time to get the boat out of the water, everyone towers over me. When they put the boat on their shoulders, I can't even reach the bloody thing. That's when I get the unglamorous job of carrying the instructor's shit for him e.g. socks, hat, water bottle, back to the shed. They all think I'm 15 years old. Doesn't help that I'm the height of a 12 year old. That's my 'midget reference'.

I turned up to a university tutorial the other day and one of my students remarked: "Oh Christina, you look like one of the students". Never mind that I am the Lecturer and Unit Co-ordinator for that course.

Kermit said it ain't easy being green. Christina says it ain't easy being 4'11.