Performance anxiety rears its ugly head.

Today is my presentation in my psych class, 10 minutes on physical and cognitive development in adulthood. You would think I was performing Hamlet (the lead role, of course) for the Queen of England. In the nude. I dreamt about it all night, once dreaming that I totally missed getting to class because I had a fender bender, and had to ride my little bike in heels and my long coat. Honestly, if there is a subject I know better, I don't know what it is. Growing old(er) is a grace and a curse. The class is composed of fresh-faced 18 year olds, and me. Somehow I thought college students were sophisticated and studious. I got that idea from Mademoiselle magazine, which used to publish a college edition every fall, lovely Grace Kelly clones in lots of plaid pleated skirts and crew neck sweaters, clutching books wrapped in college-emblemed covers, all posed on the walkway of an Ivy League university. That was my ideal, to be one of those "women". Then I actually went to college, to visit my daughter at her dorm. When I walked into the lobby, there was a huge mural, on butcher paper, you know, long rolls of cheap white fibrous paper, done in crayons. It looked like a third grade classroom, only because the words were all spelled right, and the drawings were somewhat organized. She told me that during midterms, they all hung around the dining commons in their jammies with their blankies. Not my idea of collegiate life, at all. Part of today's talk consists of a warning about all those things that I did when I was in school (smoking, drinking and sex) that made me quit, so I could return again 42 years later, determined to do it again. So the whole damned thing is just a public service announcement, if you will. If I can get the PowerPoint slide show to play, I will be just fine. If I can get through this, I will be just fine. There is only the final ahead, now, and I am doing swell on the tests, so I am not worrying about that. I just wonder why I am worrying at all.