I barely remember first hearing about 9/11. But I can tell you exactly the weather, what I wore, and where I sat when I received what I thought was an accidental email from the University of Washington Office of Admissions.
I had already been denied from the school twice. And even though my childhood physique languished in the fifth percentile for height and weight, I’d never felt smaller than when I read those rejection letters. And of course those letters buried the lede and first said thanks for applying and we’re so happy you’ve expressed interest and you won’t believe how carefully we considered your application. Then, finally, halfway down the page, they casually insert the word ‘unfortunately’ before telling me I won’t be joining them in the fall.
The first doozy I read in ’09 was a javelin through my chest cavity. The second one in’10 I should have seen coming. The only thing I changed on that essay was the date, and the font and line spacing too. Perhaps this aesthetic upheaval would turn some heads in the admissions office.
Comic Sans, 1.5 spacing, my god! This guy must be the next Stephen Hawking I hoped they would say. But no heads turned and they did not say this.
I spent the year sleeping in and mumbling under my breath that college is for suckers and anyways the purple and gold school colors don’t flatter my complexion. Plus, I had a burgeoning T-shirt empire, and when I eventually sold the business for hundreds of millions, the story would be better if the founder didn’t have a degree. But the reality was I wanted nothing more than to get into this school. I was determined. Font, line spacing, purple and gold be damned. And so I rewrote my essay and took a class at a local Community College to raise my GPA. I did everything I could think of to improve my odds, short of hiring Lori Loughlin.
I submitted my revamped ’11 application. A month later I received a bafflingly unexpected email. The subject line had an optimistic tone and the message explained how to sign up for classes and when to pay tuition. The only problem was I had never been accepted. In fact, I still had two letters in a drawer somewhere that said quite the opposite. Confused, and not willing to let this administrative error linger unacknowledged, I rushed outside to my front yard, BlackBerry in hand.
The clouds were thick, panoramic, gray like old nickels. But it was not raining. I’m certain there was no rain because I wore my red moose-print onesie with the footies, and only a masochistic ninny wears footie pajamas on wet grass.
The next-door neighbor kids played in the street. All six of them. Four generations lived in the house and the great grandma had Alzheimer’s. I’d occasionally see her, drifting in slow motion, wrestling with her posture. She sort of looked like Mr. Burns. I had previously been informed by the family that she thought she lived in my house. They asked me that if I ever saw her on my porch trying to come inside, would I please take her by the hand and walk her back over to her house.
I understand the seriousness of this disease and I do treat it as such. But I hope, somewhere deep down, a small part of you can agree that this is a hilarious predicament for me.
Anyways, the kids played with chalk. And it rained so much during the nine months of Pacific Northwest overcast, they always had a fresh canvas. Their drawings were pretty terrible, but I had no problem pretending otherwise. “Maybe you’ll be famous artists someday,” I would say. Sometimes we shot hoops together. They were even worse at that, but I drew the line there. I never told any of them to pursue a professional basketball career.
I called the school.
“University of Washington Office of Admissions, how may I help you?”
“Hi,” I said. “Umm, yeah, I just got this email…” I referred to the auspicious subject line. “Do you know anything about this?”
“Have you received a letter in the mail?” she asked.
I was no different than most 23-year-olds. I’d check my phone every minute and a half, but the mail? Monthly at best. And only when I was conveniently near the box for some unrelated reason. Nothing was ever relevant. No, I don’t need new windows—I rent. I don’t need a home security system—I barely lock my doors. And I already have enough credit card debt, but thanks for pre-approving me to make it worse, VISA. The mailman stopped by every day and basically said, “Here, you throw this stuff away.”
I paused on the phone and thought about how long it had been since I last checked.
“I don’t have any letter,” I said.
“You should have received a letter.”
If you’ve ever seen a dog with the zoomies, you can imagine what I looked like in full pajama regalia sprinting across the street to my mailbox. I sailed over the neighbor kids’ freshly chalked hopscotch squares while ignoring their stick figures and flowers and upside-down Vs that they claimed were mountains. I snatched over a month’s worth of junk mail and sifted—nay, I rifled—through offers of oil changes, tree trimmings, and teak deck furniture that I would never buy even if I had a deck. I saw an envelope with a University of Washington logo.
Up to this point, as you’re fully aware, seeing this logo was just an annual shoulder-slumping reminder of my academic fragility.
But do you remember as a kid when you’d say “Mom, look!” because you wanted to show her a silly trick or something? And of course she didn’t look so you said it again but she ignored you so you shouted it the third time and she finally looked—not because she wanted to see your physical antics or the macaroni necklace you made in school—but just to get you to stop shouting.
I dropped the stack of junk, double-checked that the University of Washington letter was indeed addressed to me. I tore it open. No lede buried. Just the first word.
“Congratulations.”
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David Gordon is a humor writer and freelance journalist. He apologizes to both parents regularly for not using his Master’s degree. His previous work can be seen in Epic Fail Magazine, Westword, and TheUrbanist. His most worthless skill is that he can walk on his hands down stairs.