Here we go with day two of Three Truths and a Lie--which, of course, is an idea that I stole (without permission) from CJane.
Remember, Monday through Thursday I'll post stories from my life. Three will be true, one will be made up. On Friday everyone can vote on which story they believe to be the lie.
And really now, if you know me in real life, please fight the urge to spill the beans with a comments. We're having fun over here!
Did you know that I spent a year and a half in theological school? I'm not talking about bible college or BYU, I'm talking about a full-on Protestant seminary where people go to become ordained ministers--UCC, Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopal--that type of thing.
You couldn't major in finance or biology at this institution. Hell, you couldn't even focus on philosophy. There were only two degree tracks, Divinity or Theology, and to be quite honest, I still don't understand what the difference is.
I was eighteen years old when I enrolled at the school, and yes, for eighteen months, this was my full-time college experience. No football team, no keg parties, no furry mascot, and definitely no hot guys.
Well, actually, I take that back. My World Religions professor was bangin' hot--his name was Dana Somethingorother, he had long brown hair, and I spent hours upon hours fantasizing about trekking across India by his rippled, muscly side. He drove a purple Toyota Tacoma, and oh my word, it gets me all hot and bothered just reflecting on the memory of beautiful, enlightened him.
Anywho, this was certainly not a traditional college experience by any stretch of the imagination. In total, there were one-hundred-and-thirty students with an average age of forty-seven. I was the second youngest student at the school, as a kid named Shawn was one month my junior--and trust me, I whipped that guy around harder than a kid brother.
During my time at the Seminary I learned Greek (very well, mind you), I sang in the church choir (against my will), and I was the worst player on our school's bowling team--which I proudly named "The Holy Rollers." And dude, the old people loved it--thought it was a friggin' hoot.
The campus consisted of a very New England church building with classrooms on top, a cafeteria/meeting hall, a library, four or five old apartment houses, and for some reason--I'm still not sure why--a big old mansion that had belonged to Hannibal Hamlin, a former governor of the State of Maine.
Shawn lived in the Hannibal Hamlin House. Well, he actually lived in an apartment that was attached to the side of the mansion--we think it had been the maid's quarters way back in the day.
One night, after a box of doughnuts and a-dozen-or-so wine coolers (sorry, Mom), Shawn and I somehow discovered that we could get into the museum part of the Governor's Mansion by jiggling the handle on a teeny-tiny connecting door in the back of Shawn's linen closet.
We took turns wriggling through the little entrance, and made it in without a trace. The idea of a security alarm never crossed our minds, and apparently that was okay because we peered through cabinets, sat on the roped off furniture, and rolled around on the old feather beds (not with each other get your mind out of the gutter), without ever calling it to any one's attention.
And then we did it again the next night.
And then the next weekend.
And then eventually, we started sneaking into the old governor's mansion every single weekend to sit at his expansive dining room table, sip on brandy (Shawn, not me), and play poker in our best colonial accents. Some nights, when we were feeling particularly crazy, we'd climb through the master bedroom closet, to the top of the widow's walk and smoke cigars in the purplish. moonlight.
I know. How weird can you get?
Eventually, my lack of an age appropriate social life started to weigh on my soul and I transferred up the road to the University of Maine. I had had it with the age difference--If I saw one more can of Ensure, I swear I was going to lose my mind. This young girl need cans of Bud in her sight line, and trust me when I tell you, they were flowing at the University.
Of course I was sad to say goodbye to my wealth of post-menopausal friends, and almost none of my credits transferred, but really, I wasn't sure how I'd ended up at that school in the first place.