Oh, The Agony, Oh, The Ecstasy!

He got in!  Now what?

Quickie from "You Don't Have To Be Jewish," the comedy album that shaped my sense of humor: Women #1: "Oh, the agony!  Oh, the ecstasy!  Oh, the agony!  Oh, the ecstasy!" Women #2:  "What is it?  What's wrong?  Tell me!  What's the agony?" Women #1:  "My daughter's getting married." Women #2:  "And the ecstasy?" Women #1:  "He's a nice young doctor."

Early this morning, we had our own version of this dialogue: "Oh, the agony!  Oh, the ecstasy!" "What is it?  What's wrong?  Tell me!  What's the agony?" "My youngest's going away to college!" "And the ecstasy?"  "He got into Santa Cruz!"  "The hippy school?" "Shut up!  It's a good school!"


Sunday night, we drank coffee and waited for the stroke of midnight, when UC Santa Cruz would post who got in, and God forbid, kina hora, give us strength, who didn't.  Some in the house were more relaxed than others.  Hubby did his waiting on the sofa, watching TV, snoozing on and off.  Very Zen-like approach.  (Till Midnight, when the website slowed to a crawl, and the ranting began.  But up until then, nicely played.) Scotty, the future college boy in question, sat at his computer, Face Booking away the hours.  He was fine, until 11:45.  Then the rituals began.  The chanting, the clutching of his brother's UC Santa Cruz sweatshirt for good luck. 

As for the me?  Well, let's just say the SJG was a complete mess, pretty much from eight o'clock on.  No surprise there.  I'm a professional worrier.  I could make a bundle at this, if only someone would pay me.  Let me worry for you, people.  I'm better at it than you, trust me.  Worrying is so deeply embedded in my DNA, no amount of happy talk or positive thinking can reverse what my Russian ancestors put into motion long ago. Hope for the best, expect the worst.  That concept first originated in Kiev; I blame my father's family tree.  I'm telling you, my people are pacers and fretters and what-iffers.  The possibility that I'd wait patiently for good news?  Extremely remote.  It goes against my grain.  This holds true for any occasion.  What a great way to go through life, eh?  My new book hits the stands soon:  "Worrying for Dummies."

Near midnight, I joined Scotty in his room, and did an interpretive dance to the Gods of All That Is Random.  Logic said that he'd get in.  But when has logic ever worked on our behalf?  At 12 a.m., he tried to log in and couldn't.  Neither could his friends.  There was a frantic round of expletive-laden IM'ing.   A lot of "I can't get in.  Can you?"  And from one stoner friend, "three bowls in":  "I forgot my password."  Hubby came ever-so-slightly unhinged.  "Try again.  Stop talking to your friends."  Whereupon Scotty invited his father, in colorful prose, to vacate the premises.  Hubby stomped down the hall. I stayed, trying to gently coax the anxious one (I've taught him well!) through this hellish exercise. Then his friends, the same ones who couldn't log-in, hurtled past us, shouting their acceptances via the Internet.  Did we need that?  Did we care about them?  No!  This was a Scotty moment. 

And so, while he worked the Mac upstairs, I worked the PC downstairs.  It took half an hour, which felt more like three-and-a-half, and my intestines threatened to explode, but I got the good news first.  Ha! There was some yelling, some hugging.  There was a large quantity of glee.  We conferenced with the eldest, about to graduate from UC Santa Cruz and do what?  Something great, I'm sure.  Today, we are proud and we are happy.  Until the tuition's due.