Bidding farewell to Halls of Ivy

I hadn’t been to a university graduation, as far as I recall, since my own graduation back before the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, yet on Friday, that was where I found myself. Royal Roads University, on the outskirts of Victoria, BC, is a beautiful campus and looks just like everybody would expect a university to look like. That’s why they film so many movies there. “You want Princeton circa 1937? Use Royal Roads.” That’s the way it goes.

I found myself at Royal Roads because Wendy, the light of my life and all that stuff, was finally getting her MBA after a slog of two years. And, while she is proud of her attainment, not to mention her sterling GPA, it was almost more of a sense of “Phew – I’ve done it. It’s over. Maybe we can live a normal life once again.” Well, let me be the first to say, that works well for me, too.

Oh, and there will be no picture of Wendy in her grad regalia on this page, mainly because she said: “I don’t want you running a grad picture of my on your blog!” which leaves me with no choice but to not run one. She’s a very private soul and regards my blog as being ‘my thing’, so there you are. She said I could mention it, however, so that is what I’m doing.

Anyway, it was a long and tiring session punctuated by the impulse of those called upon to speak at significant events to believe everybody in the audience has bladders the size of beachballs and they are perched on their seats hoping that the address will contain as many words as possible.

But, it was, all said and one, a delight to see Wendy not only march across that stage to have her hand shaken by the poobahs, but also to hear that she was a significant academic award winner at the same time. The less stated about my university scholasticism record at this time, the better.

After all the formal stuff there was a mix and mingle. That was kind of enjoyable, although I hardly knew anybody. Anybody except (and this struck me when they were introducing the dignitaries back at the convocation service) possibly the Dean of Arts. They mentioned his name, and there is he in all his formal academic regalia, and I thought: “could it be?” So, I went up to the Dean at the social situation and I introduced myself, and said are you a former student of Burnaby South High School, and then gave the date? “Yes,” he replied. “You must be too, or you wouldn’t have asked.” Yes, it was true. This distinguished looking academic guy was the same semi-goof in high school who went by the nickname ‘Yogi Bear.’ I bet I was the only person in that mass of people who knew that. Anyway, we had a great chat and he even suggested I might look into (considering my background) being a journalistic advisor in the university’s communications program. Interesting.

And then there was ‘Bambi’. Bambi’s not her real name, but she is ‘A Bambi’, if you get my drift. Bambi is about 35-ish, dresses like an early 20s-ish, with her long tresses and obviously silicone boobs that thrust more firmly than Mother Nature ever intended and the boys (being predominantly middle-aged exec types in an MBA program), Wendy informed me swarmed like adolescent bees to proffered honey when Bambi came into their presence. She always had her entourage of fawning males – guys are such sluts when they’re away from home.

Anyway, I was standing there whilst Wendy was chatting with assorted friends, and noticed Bambi sitting there all alone, her academic robe barely covering her well-exposed and utterly tanned cleavage, and I thought she looked sort of sad in her isolation. I mentioned that to Wendy later. “Of course,” she said. “Wives, partners, girlfriends and kids were there. They’re hardly going to be chatting up Bambi.

Poor Bambi. Now what is to become of her?

I guess I don’t care all that much. What I do care is that Wendy, after two years of gruelling work accomplished what she set out to do, and I’m really, really glad it’s over. So is she.