Molly and I arrived on campus in style for her first official act as a Wisconsin Badger.
Distracted by the deceptive savoir faire of Molly’s British GPS, we drove right up Bascom Hill and found ourselves awkwardly positioned on the patio between the building and its famous statue of Abe Lincoln.
“We shouldn’t be driving here, should we?” I called out of the window of our idling car.
“Probably not,” the student assistant pleasantly replied.
I chuckled merrily as I inched my little blue Bug down the sidewalk, weaving gently through strolling students, and headed back toward Observatory Drive. Molly hunched her tall self down as deep into the passenger seat as she possibly could go.
I parked, unbuckled my seat belt and then we had our second disaster.
“Oh no!” Molly yelled in utter panic. “We’re wearing the same shirt!”
I looked down and, sure enough, we had accidentally twinsied ourselves. Worse, still, we were wearing message T-shirts.
Even I, who actually bought and wore matching Christmas sweaters with my daughter through a stretch of her childhood, had to admit that it was decidedly uncool to show up at school wearing the same “You are Beautiful” T-shirt as your mom.
Molly quickly double-wrapped a sweater around herself, firmly sent me in the opposite direction, and headed off to take her placement exams.
Meanwhile, a glorious Saturday in Madison, Wisconsin stretched out before me and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
While Molly spent five hours with a tiny purse calculator she’d dug out of our kitchen junk drawer and a couple of No. 2 pencils, I strolled up and down State Street, and enjoyed the Farmer’s Market. I sat on the Terrace with a cup of ice cream and savored the view. I heard a great military jazz band play, tasted lots of cheese curds and bought a new dress.
Later, when I met back up with Molly, I told her how excited I was that we (I mean she) got to spend four years on this glorious campus.
“I’m really excited,” she said. “But, I can’t believe we’re wearing the same shirt.”
I got a kick out of the Raging Grannies. Here’s a taste.