You know, I’m not sure why I haven’t really written more about my experience at boarding school. When Isabel asked me for links to posts that discuss that era of my life, I realized that I don’t really have any. It’s something that has defined so much of my life post the 13 year mark, yet there’s no real talk of it here. To this day, it still permeates my personality in ways both subtle and glaring. Why then can’t I sit down and write about the time that had such a profound effect on me?

Could you sum up your entire high school career in a blog post? That’s such a daunting task. And really, if I didn’t lay it all out at once I wouldn’t have any idea where to start. But I’ll try none the less, if for no other reason then to attempt to categorize my memories. I hereby dedicate every Wednesday (ha! you don’t really believe that, right?) to tales of TASIS. Starting today, with what else but the first day of school. So sit down, grab a cuppa tea and some biscuits and lets begin…

I was nervous. Remember the first day of high school? You probably went to kindergarten with most of your freshman class. Not me, I was stepping onto a campus in a country across an ocean from all the people that I’d known forever, where the vernacular was a little unfamiliar, and the culture more refined. I will never forget standing in a queue outside of the front lobby checking in for my new life. I remember it down to the last detail. I was wearing a long sleeve baby tee, stripped in dark earth tones with a big black heart (what? me bitter?) embroidered across my chest. I thought it was perfect. I had picked it up at 5-7-9 just before we set sail over the Atlantic. What a sight I must have been.

The sky was surprisingly blue that day. I probably don’t have to tell you how uncommon that can be in merry ole England. Veteran students walked across the quad like they owned the place, as the newbies kicked at the dusty gravel awhile their parents networked. That was the thing about TASIS. Everybody’s parents were somebodies. Everyone had money. The president of Gillette, Cadbury, Pepsi, Shell? Yup, I went to school with their sons and daughters. This was something that I had no experience with. My last school was an amalgamation of middle class white collar families intermingled with kids bused in from the city. I’m sure a few of them had money, but certainly none of their Dads had a private jet.

There was a welcome reception that evening in the Orangerie, complete with all the requisite British treats and a few American favorites to make us feel at home. But it felt far from it. While my parents were happy to hobnob, I just wanted to go to my dorm and hide.
Eventually, with the festivities over, and the parents gone for the night, I walked back to my dorm to get to know my new roommate. But, she wasn’t there. I believe it was a rule that all new students had to spend the first night on campus. That way you can get to know each other and get settled in. It makes sense to force kids to socialize, right? But with the absence of my complete stranger of a roommate, things felt peaceful somehow. I decided then and there that I was ready to start a new life. It was the perfect situation, I could erase any bad memories and start with a clean slate. Get rid of all the tired old inside jokes, the not so endearing nicknames. No one expected me to be a certain way, and I had no expectations of others. This was going to be good. I just knew it.

Saturday night I found myself in a mosh pit. At a punk show. And yes, I was there of my own volition.
Sunday morning I woke up to discover a huge black and purple bruise on my back and a suspiciously large lump on my head.

But damn, was it a good time.

Never mind that I felt old enough to be most of the crowd’s mother. Forget about the fact that I haven’t been to a punk show since my semi-goth days of high school. Put aside that whole, as you get older your bones don’t heal quite so fast. I mean, that crossed my mind, mind you, but I decided to ignore that pesky little voice that kept telling me I’m way too old to enter into the ring of violence and dislocated shoulders. Instead I listened to the voice that was telling me it’s okay, because at least I’m responsible enough to have health insurance.
If you’ve never been in a mosh pit, allow me to educate you. It is hot. Sweaty. Noisy. Scary. The boys that are in there have complete disregard for their own lives. And most of them generally weigh at least a hundred pounds more then me. That equals a lot of sweat. And also, please do not ever enter the pit if you are worried about your general appearance or smell. You won’t like either by the time you leave. There is no avoiding the transfer of their grossness onto your own soon-to-be-just-as-gross-and-sweaty little fragile girl body.

On the other hand there is nothing better then the adrenaline rush that comes while elbows are flying dangerously close to your face and 200 pound boys are getting thrown to the floor mere inches in front of you. With certain death, or at least broken bones and black eyes lurking dangerously near, you can’t help but marvel at your own bravery

…at least until you wake up the next morning an hour later then you wanted to with every muscle in your body screaming at you to STOP MOVING DAMMIT, and remember that you promised a friend you would watch her 18 month old for the whole day.
Yup, I’m definitely not as young as I used to be.