Survival Techniques for a ‘Mature Age’ Student

By Holley Meagher

The first rule is ‘don’t panic – stay calm’. It doesn’t always work.
I was sinking - into the quicksand of paperwork - my head barely visible. There were no extensions to hang onto.

"I need all your records by tomorrow morning."
A joke perhaps? No. A humorous accountant is an oxymoron. This was serious.
Quickbooks. Quicksand. Same thing. Ironic really. There’s nothing ‘quick’ about them. A slow, mind numbing death. Time seems to expand at such moments. In reality, it’s contracting.

Did he say tomorrow? Deadlines! I hate them. They panic me. I should be used to them. As a journalism student I have to live with them.

Atrophied adrenal glands resurrect themselves. I suspect they’re over doing it. My heart thumps in my head. What it’s doing there, I have no idea. My brain must have slid elsewhere. No wonder I can’t think. Probably cerebral arteriosclerosis.

At 55, I’m not exactly a ‘cub reporter’. I’m identified as a ‘mature age’ student. Sounds like a smelly old cheese. Oh well! Minority groups have to suffer indignities and identity tags. Discriminatory? Who cares. ‘Housewife’ is worse.

"I have three assignments due, I can’t do it. What are my options?"
"Either pay a fine or go to jail."
Jail? Well, there’s a story. The iron cage of bureaucracy. A sociological piece. Weber had it right. Marx was an ideologist. No harm in that. We all aspire to something.

On second thoughts, jail is not a good option. My sons and our dog need me. No – depend on me – ‘be accurate’

A fine is out of the question. "Mum, seriously, we need another computer – Mum, Gaffer’s chewed my school jumper - Mum, I need a mobile. I’m an outcast – my bike’s busted – I have to get Nick a birthday present – Mum, I’m starving! – Mum, I’m out of this place; send money."

There is only one option. Miss lectures and punch in numbers. I log on – Email the Boss. Should I pretend to be ill? I am feeling quite sick. ‘Tell the truth’. Ethics are etched on my brain.

File my ‘Features’ - close Word – put on the washing machine - open Quicken . Hell!
I hadn’t made an entry for six months. How had that happened?

I felt ashamed. Being a widow, I was now the breadwinner. Our income depended on my investments. (Apologies to the socialists. I do what is possible. It’s not ideal)

I’d broken my rules. Journalism was dominating my life. I’d allowed four days maximum. I was half right. Journalism is an eight day a week program.

My underestimation of the workload became obvious before I’d even unpacked my pencils on day one. "Go onto the campus, get a story and have it on my desk in an hour". A story? One hour? Shouldn’t we be taught ‘how to’ before we ‘had to’?

The pace accelerated from that point.

No-one will tell you, but the pre-requisites for post graduate journalism are:
Physical fitness – preferably Olympian standard; shorthand; speed reading (two newspapers in as many minutes) insomnia, a live-in Mother and an excess of endorphins. There are more. I just don’t want to put anyone off.

Having none of the above it’s been tough. I’ve re-arranged my priorities to gain more time.

Domestic chores are not a problem. I work on a scientific principle. Do only what must be done to prevent the mess from reaching a ‘critical mass’ - inconveniences but no explosions – well, just a few.

Don’t fuss about a bit of dirt. Immune systems need to ‘work out’- get a bit of training – fight a few bacteria. Elephants, after all, eat each other’s excreta to achieve this goal. Not that I advocate extremes – just commenting. I don’t advise university for the domestically fastidious.

Mothering is a bit trickier. Omnipresence and omniscience are beyond science, beyond me. I’ve learned a few things.

Children are desperate to ‘grow up’. I decided to actively help rather than hamper this process. It’s been liberating for them as well as for me. All I’ve done is accept the obvious. Kids know everything – "What would you know Mum?"

I know enough to be philosophical about life. Like Aristotle, I aim for the ‘mean’- somewhere between order and chaos. Independent variables –brackets falling off teeth braces, interviews falling flat, dogs going AWOL, leads drying up, fences falling down – the unpredictable, unexpected elements of life held together by a rigid time-table of assignments measured to the last nano-second. Life after deadlines? Hard to believe. Aristotle didn’t waste time thinking about it.

To survive, I’ve had to improvise and syncretize. Sounds like a lot of old jazz. It is. The ability to select, blend and create new ways of expression are skills minority groups acquire. A mix of what works. A ‘mature-age’ student needs to adapt.

If you happen to be obsessed by routine – forget it. Look what happened to Sisyphus. Who wants to roll the same rock up the same hill forever? How absurd. Loosen up or you’ll snap.
My friends imagine it is me who has snapped. I’m expected to slide into retirement. Take up line-dancing or bingo perhaps. "How do you cope with all that study?" they ask. Well, I cope because I don’t have to do it. I choose to do it. As the last of my many roles draws to a close I’m preparing for a single life of sorts. But I’m still alive. Aren’t I? Every one needs a retirement plan I’m told.

A degree in journalism will probably cost me more than it earns. It’s the learning not the earning I’m interested in, the writing not the rewards. Success would be wonderful but I’m not depending on it. Economic rewards are not a motivating factor. Doing it – writing - that’s what drives me. My accountant calls it ‘a life style choice’. He enters it in the debit column. We’ll see.

Post-script – I delivered a stack of somewhat ‘unbalanced’ files to my accountant. I now have time to attend the afternoon lecture. But what to wear? It’s been two weeks of rain. I won’t mention the gutter cleaning exercise. The laundry inbox is full - the outbox empty. So! The black or green plastic garbag? Perhaps the green. It has a drawstring hem – just the thing for keeping my legs dry in this deluge. It might even keep me buoyant. Anything to stop from sinking.