Page 6 of Unsupervised
I increase my speed and fall into a comfortable jog. “Exactly.”
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be looking. You already got your rebound relationship out of the way.”
That was a turbulent few months. Kyra seemed nice enough. She was a dental hygienist with no children, owned her own house, and seemed to have a good head on her shoulders. Barely three months into the relationship and she started planning a future with me including marriage and kids. Once she showed me a picture of the engagement ring she wanted, and hinted that Valentine’s Day wasn’t far away, I noped out of that situation fast. Maybe dating someone eight years older wasn’t the best idea. You could hear her biological clock banging like bongos.
“I’m not seeking out anyone right now.”
Travis glances at me. “I know what Paula did fucked you up. Just don’t let it stop you from trusting someone again, or the bitch really wins.”
Travis married his high school sweetheart and has been happily married for over ten years. Dalton gives him shit about being tied down or having a ball and chain, but we both know he’s one of the lucky ones.
I’m not going to let my ex-fiancée take away my chance at having that someday, but for right now, I’m fine with being alone, maybe with an occasional hookup. My teaching career—plus investing and consulting on the side—keeps me busy. This semester, I also volunteered to oversee an Adulting Club a couple of days per week, so I have plenty to keep me occupied.
“I’m over her,” I assure him. “But you know the bar isn’t my scene.”
Twenty-eight. I turned twenty-eight today. Maybe I’m getting old. I mean, is this how it starts? When you’d rather sit on your porch with a beer and music you actually enjoy listening to instead of trying to pick up women while top forties songs torture your ears. “Poker?”
Travis grins at me. “Sounds good to me. Low stakes. If you clean me out, Diane will come looking for you.”
We fall silent and focus on our running. Travis has to leave before me, since he has to pick up his kid at his mother in law’s house. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says. “Ransing Corp is looking for a freelance consultant. I put in a good word for you and gave them your email, so you may hear from them.”
Travis has the same economics degree I do, and from the same university, but we wanted different things once we joined the work force. I like consulting, but I’m not sure about doing it full time. I’ve always wanted to try teaching. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s not as fulfilling as I pictured. Most students take economics just to fill in a gap on their schedule or because it’s required for another field. There’s very little interest. Math pun intended.
I hesitated on whether to continue this semester when I was offered the position but decided to give it one more year. I can always freelance as a consultant to enhance my income. I’m not rich by any account, but I’m not struggling either. I have some leeway to see where I’ll be happiest.
“Thanks,” I tell Travis. “I’ll keep an eye out for their email.”
* * *
The smile on my face when I show up for the first Adulting Club meeting on Saturday may have something to do with the fact that I won two hundred bucks from Dalton. He’s not usually a bad poker player, but he was too focused on sexting with someone and showing off the nudes he was getting.
I don’t know who was sending him pictures, but they need to learn to focus or angle their shots a little better. The last photo looked like a dog’s lips when it sticks its head out of a car window. We called it a night when he decided to take some dick pics to send back.
Who says romance is dead?
The first meeting is being held in the student center, and I have no idea what kind of turnout to expect. Fifteen students signed the interest sheet, but I’ll be happy if half that show up. The student center is the main hub of the community college side of the campus and is usually well populated with students using the computers, getting something from a vending machine, or just hanging out with friends around one of the shiny wooden tables. Today is no different.
“If you’re here for the Adulting Club, we’re meeting in room B,” I announce, nodding toward a door in the back. I’m pleased to see at least eight students get to their feet and head that way.
“Owen, you can’t be an adult!” a student calls out from one of the tables, drawing laugher from the room. I recognize the student from one of my classes last semester, and he grins at me. “Lost cause, Mr. Aldrich. That boy is a big box of stupid.”
Before I can respond, Owen retorts, “Dude, quit worrying about me and get your ass to the gym. I’ve seen ostriches with bigger calves.”
The student center monitor looks at me with her lips pressed together when I can’t help but laugh at them along with everyone else. Another birthday hasn’t matured my sense of humor any. “Let’s go, Mr. Wright,” I chuckle, following him into room B.
“I don’t think Mrs. Fillon likes you, Mr. A,” Owen laughs, taking a seat at the table. Owen is the typical class clown, a lot like I used to be before I had to pretend to be a professional.
“You don’t appear to be her favorite person either.”
A titter goes around the room. All in all, it wasn’t the worst way to break the ice. I want this club to be educational and for them to leave with new skills, but I also want it to be fun. These kids are stressed and stretched too thin by work and classes as it is. The goal is to make things better for them, not add to that.
“Okay.” I take a seat at the long table with them. “Welcome to Adulting Club. First, I want to say there will be absolutely no judgement or belittling going on here for not knowing some of the life skills we’re going to be learning. I know there’s a lot of that being thrown at you from older generations. I’m not sure how failing to teach these skills—either at home or at school—became the fault of the students, but it doesn’t apply here.
“I started this program because there were so many things that I realized I had no idea how to handle once I was on my own. I mean, I could tell you that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell or identify a parallelogram, but strangely, those vital lessons have yet to become helpful.”
Chuckles run through the room as I continue. “Some of this stuff you may know and that’s great. You can help the others learn, but I guarantee all of you will walk away with new skills that make the transition to independence smoother.”
I look around the table. “I recognize a few faces, but let’s introduce ourselves.” The girl sitting across from me is familiar, and I realize she’s the one who isn’t good at speaking in front of a group, judging by the way she stumbled through in class. The one who asked me about crabs walking sideways. Her expression tightens, and I’m sure she’s remembering that moment too.