DAD: You feel better now?
ME: Yes, much better. I knew I wouldn’t hit a good shot if I was worried I’d hit one of them.
DAD: OK, then I won’t screw you up by telling you that all of the ducks went right back to the fairway after you drove away.
I turned around, and sure enough, all of those little ducks had hopped out of their pond and nestled comfortably back on the fairway. I mumbled a few obscenities and geared up to take my shot. Just get loft under the ball, Danielle. Just get loft, was all I could think to myself. I swung my club back and connected with the ball—poorly. I did get loft under my ball, but I didn’t hit it hard enough. The ball hit the ground a few yards in front of the ducks before taking off like a bat out of hell—right into one duck’s face. The ducks I managed to miss flew off, while the one injured duck tumbled onto its side, shaking its poor little head viciously. It’s hard for me to remember what happened next because I was in absolute hysterics. Crying and screaming, I ran as fast as I could to the clubhouse to . . . Get help? Turn myself into the authorities? I have no idea why I thought someone at the clubhouse would be able to help that sad, wounded duck, but I did. When I made it to the front desk, I tried to explain what had happened, but they all just looked at me like I was speaking gibberish. To their credit, I probably was.
Ten seconds into my “I might be a duck murderer” rant, my dad walked in.
DAD: Danielle. Look out the window—right now.
ME: No, no, no. I don’t want to see.
DAD: He’s fine, Danielle. Look! He’s getting up—slowly—but he’s getting up.
I looked out the window, and bless his little duck heart, he was walking. He was slightly off balance but managed to make his way to the pond with his friends and swim around. I kept my eyes locked on him while my dad went to get my golf clubs from the fairway of the eighteenth green and throughout our outdoor lunch at the nearby restaurant. But eventually, all of the ducks started to look the same. I still felt awful, and whenever I think about that day, I shudder, but I am so relieved I hadn’t killed or seriously injured him.
The next time I went to that golf course, the ducks had miraculously disappeared, and I’ve never seen them since. Either the golf course relocated the ducks to protect them from me, or the ducks decided all on their own that they didn’t want to live in a place where that psychopath Danielle Fishel plays. I’d be willing to bet it’s the latter.
I still haven’t really found “my sport.” Despite my less-than-stellar experiences, I still love to play golf and try to play about once a week—but I’m not really getting much better at it. I need to take lessons. In the meantime, I am perfectly happy watching the pros do their thing on television. It’s fun to watch and is so much safer for those who are accident-prone like I am. I have never once been physically injured while watching TV.
I am way more proud of that than any sane person should be.
* * *
CHAPTER 6
* * *
NEVER TOO OLD
I was eighteen when Boy Meets World started its seventh season. I had graduated from high school, and I technically should have been starting college. But I had been going to school and working on BMW for six years, and the idea of starting college during our final season sounded . . . kind of unbearable. I know I told you that I loved high school, but it wasn’t because of the academics. I loved school for the normal reasons: boys, friends, and the availability of cafeteria pizza. Any place that has pizza is a worthwhile place to be, in my opinion.
For years, my decision not to attend college ate at me. Didn’t I want to develop a well-rounded education that I could carry with me for life? Didn’t I want to have a solid game plan if I ever decided that I didn’t want to be an actress anymore? Didn’t I want to meet college boys and make college friends and eat college pizza? Of course I did. And that’s when I knew I had to go back to school.
At twenty-three, I took my placement exams at a community college in Los Angeles called Santa Monica College (SMC). It was nerve-racking for me, because not only had I not been on a school campus since high school, but I was afraid that my identity as Topanga would follow me everywhere I went. I loved being known as Topanga, but I wanted people to want to get to know Danielle, too. I was hopeful that college would be that opportunity but nervous that other people wouldn’t be accepting of me.
On the day of my math and English placement exams at SMC, I nervously walked alone across the campus. A group of guys noticed me and yelled, “Topangaaaaaa!” from across the quad, and everyone in the vicinity stopped what they were doing and looked at me. My face flushed, I smiled meekly, and I instantly put my head down as I increased my walking speed. Blending in was already not going as planned.
A few weeks later, I got the results of my placement exams and was given a date to enroll for the fall semester. I should have been excited to register, but I didn’t do it. A thousand thoughts raced through my head: What if people made fun of me? What if people talked about me behind my back? What if I never made any friends and was completely isolated from everyone on campus? What if I didn’t remember how to be a student? With the books, the notes, the studying, and the time-management skills, being a student is a lifestyle. I wasn’t very good at it back in high school, so why on earth did I think I’d be better at it in college? And what if I hated it and wanted to drop out? At that time, I figured trying and not succeeding was much worse than simply never trying. So I made a million excuses and let four more years go by without enrolling in school.
During those four years, barely a day went by that I didn’t regret not enrolling at SMC. When I turned twenty-seven, I realized I would have been graduating if I had enrolled and attended school full-time after taking my placement exams. It’s not like I didn’t have the time. I didn’t even have a regular acting job, so I was basically consistently unemployed and uneducated, which sucked.
I felt about as low as I had ever felt. I felt like a loser. No job, no skills other than acting, no possibilities for work in the near future, and no college education. I thought about all of the times in my life that I had made the decision not to do something I really wanted to do. There was one common denominator in every instance: fear.
I was afraid of what people would think about me, afraid that people wouldn’t like me, afraid that I wouldn’t get good grades, afraid that I’d never get the chance to act again and would be unemployable for any other job for the rest of my life. I was terrified that I’d end up being regarded as a total failure by myself and my family. I was afraid of letting strangers down, letting my family down, and letting myself down.
But what exactly was that fear doing to help me? Absolutely nothing. I had simply avoided trying to better myself, and instead, I had jumped right to the failing. I realized that I didn’t have anything to lose; everything I feared had already happened, because I wasn’t even trying to change my situation. I was paralyzed by my own insecurities, and I was determined to quit being my own worst enemy.
I called my parents. I told them that I was done being afraid of everything that challenged me and that I had made the decision to go back to school. I asked my parents to stay on me about this decision, and if it seemed to them like I was getting ready to back out, please remind me that I was a big fat chicken and that I should go anyway.
I had enrolled in a community college, Santiago Canyon College (SCC), that was near my new house in Orange County, and my parents never needed to remind me that I was a big fat chicken. I signed up for only eight units, because I didn’t want to be overwhelmed in my first semester of college. I knew from past experiences that feeling overwhelmed would only give me yet another excuse to back out. I was slowly learning how to set myself up for academic success.
Then the first day of school arrived in what seemed like a flash—and I missed it. I’m not sure why I wasn’t more prepared (scared and in denial that I actually had to show up, maybe?), but I could have sworn I signed up for classes that were on Tu
esdays and Thursdays. Stupidly, I waited until Monday at eleven A.M. to get my backpack organized. The first thing I did was print my schedule so I could put it inside my notebook. That’s when I noticed that I had a class at ten A.M. on Monday morning . . . and I was in bed. In my pajamas. At eleven A.M. Organizing my stupid backpack. The first day of class was almost over, and I had never shown up.
I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. Should I take this as a sign and just never go? No. Yes. Maybe. You big fat chicken. No! I went to the school website, looked up my Monday teacher’s email address, and emailed her. Her name was Dr. Anne Hauscarriague. Hauscarriague? Great. Now not only was I the slacker student who didn’t show up for the first day of her class, but I was never going to be able to pronounce her name.
In my email, I apologized profusely and told her the truth about what happened. I also told her that I was twenty-seven and this was my first semester back at school since high school. I also told her that I was normally very conscientious and responsible and that my not showing up on the first day was not an accurate representation of who I am. I basically begged for another chance. First day of school, and I was already groveling. Maybe I should have continued to be a student at the University of Life, since I already seemed to stink at real college.
Dr. Hauscarriague wrote me back and said that students who miss the first day of school are usually dropped immediately. However, she still had seats available in her class and might be willing to give me another chance if I came to her office that day to go over what I missed earlier that morning. I agreed and went to school to meet her in her office.
During our face-to-face meeting, I apologized profusely again for missing her class. I found myself being very honest with her about my fears and concerns about starting such an important endeavor at twenty-seven years old. She told me that I had nothing to worry about and that people much older than I had gone back to school and been very successful. Apparently, I just needed to actually show up for class and do the work. Amazing!
Dr. H, as she became known, was incredible. She was approachable, helpful, funny, straightforward, and encouraging. She was never afraid to make a fool of herself if she thought it would help her students remember an important equation, and when students did particularly well on a test, she gave them pencils that had “Math rocks!” printed on the side. There have been quite a few teachers who have helped shape my life, and Dr. H was one of them.
After spending two surprisingly fun years at SCC, I graduated with my associate of arts degree and transferred to California State University, Fullerton (CSUF). On May 5, 2011, I turned thirty and was finishing up my first semester at CSUF. Just like she does every year, my mom took me out for birthday pancakes.
I’m not sure how our pancake tradition got started. We both love pancakes, but we try not to eat them on a regular basis for two reasons; one, they aren’t exactly healthy, and two, we both feel the same way after we eat them. We’re full all day until dinner, at which point we get the shakes, because we have very little nutrition in our systems but a whole lot of sugar. I douse my pancakes in syrup, and if you don’t do the same thing, then I’m not sure why you’re eating them. To me, a pancake is basically the vessel that carries gallons of syrup down my gullet, and that’s the way I like it.
My mom is equally obsessed with “syrup vessels,” and we can eat a lot of them, especially considering that we are not very big people. With my five-foot-one-and-a-quarter-inch height, I tower over her petite five-foot-tall frame. She weighs barely more than one hundred pounds, and I regularly hover somewhere between one hundred ten and one hundred fifteen pounds, depending on whether I am eating to live or living to eat at that particular time. I frequently bounce back and forth between the two. The point is, every time we order pancakes—every single time—the server asks us the same question: “Are you sure you want a full stack of pancakes? We offer a half stack.” Who eats a half stack of pancakes? Children? Do we look like children? Of course we each want a full stack of pancakes, but when you make us spell it out like that, I feel like you’re judging me. Stop judging my pancake eating! (I say this in my head, choosing to smile politely and say, “Yes, a full stack is fine, thank you,” because that’s called maturity. I think.)
On this particular birthday (just like every other birthday), I devoured my full stack of pancakes covered in syrup, said good-bye and thank you to my mom, and left for school. I had a big oral presentation to give that morning and wanted to have time to prepare before I went into class.
Well, I had intended to prepare, but when I got to school an hour early, I was hit by the pancake wall. My stomach was so full, and I was already coming down from my syrup sugar high. I parked my car in the school lot and went over my presentation out loud a couple of times. My car was so quiet, the air-conditioning felt so good, and, oh, hey, look, my seat even reclined! Yes, a nap was exactly what I needed. I set the alarm on my phone, rolled over onto my stomach, which is the only way I can sleep, and closed my eyes.
When my alarm went off, I was shocked to discover that I had apparently been hitting snooze for some time. I had five minutes to get my stuff together and get to class. I grabbed my notebook and my purse and locked my car. I got to class with one minute to spare.
I was the third person to present that day. When it was my turn, I stood up and walked to the front of the class. I noticed that some people were looking at me with semiconfused expressions. Two girls in the back of the room looked at me, then looked at each other and started laughing. My first thought was, Do I have something stuck in my teeth? But then I remembered that I had only eaten pancakes, which don’t get stuck in teeth. I was fine.
My presentation went smoothly. I had nailed it and was pretty sure I could count on getting an A for that assignment. Nothing made me happier than getting As. After years of primarily attending school for the social functions and activities, I was suddenly obsessed with being an outstanding student. It was annoying to everyone around me, excluding my teachers, and I was frequently annoyed with myself. I didn’t know where this nerdy and Topanga-esque personality trait came from, but I think it had a lot to do with the fact that I really, really wanted to be there. It took determination, courage, and overcoming years of fear for me to be on that campus, and I wanted to make the most of it. I’m also competitive and looked at getting good grades as winning in the imaginary game of college. That’s what you do when you get older. Make up imaginary games so you can win them.
When class was over, I walked to my car with a big smile on my face. I drove home and walked my dogs, Anna and Spike.
My neighbor came outside and made small talk for a few minutes. Then she asked, “Are you OK?”
I wanted to tell her that I was more than OK because I had just nailed a presentation at school, but I didn’t. I said, “Yeah, of course. Why?”
She didn’t really give me a solid answer but instead mumbled something about me looking like I had been crying. Hmmm, I thought. That’s weird.
I took my dogs inside and went upstairs to put on my pajamas. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon, but that didn’t stop me. Side note: When I’m home, it is guaranteed that I will be in my pajamas. I love pajamas. If I wake up and don’t have to leave the house, I stay in my pajamas. If I do have to go somewhere in the morning, I put on regular clothes and then immediately come home and put my pajamas back on. I don’t care if I’m only going to be home for an hour or two before I have to leave again—if I am home, I am in my pajamas. This book was written entirely in my pajamas.
Anyway, on my way to the closet, where I had left my pajamas, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I did look like I had been crying. I walked right up to my bathroom mirror and looked at my face. What was looking back at me wasn’t pretty. I had mascara smeared halfway down my right cheek. My left eye was surrounded by mascara flakes, which made it look like I had a black eye. The blue dress I was wearing had a stain that stretched into a straight line down the front of my
dress. It was syrup—which had ended up there because I had syrup in my freaking hair.
I had just been standing in front of my professor and forty other college students for ten minutes with syrup in my hair and down the front of my dress and mascara smeared all over my face. I wondered how this could have possibly happened, and it was in that instant that I realized I had not looked in the mirror, not even once, since I had left my house for pancakes earlier that morning. Excellent. On that day, my birthday, I had a rare day without vanity, and look where it got me. I told myself that I was never to be trusted around food again unless a mirror was nearby. Oh, and naps in the car were officially outlawed. I never did nap in my car before class again.
A year and a half later, I was enjoying the summer before my last semester of college. I’m not exactly sure how it started, but I had become completely infatuated with bowling. You’ve probably noticed by now that I have a bit of an obsessive personality. I can become obsessed with nearly anything—a TV show, a certain food, a particular sport, a beverage, a band or artist, books, and so on. I have been preoccupied with everything I just mentioned, and many others I did not mention, at one time or another. My obsessions come in waves, with very little warning about when they begin and when they might end. This particular summer, bowling was on my brain all the time.
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