I didn’t need a sign from the universe to confirm my Do-Over! I knew in my bones it was the right decision. But I got one anyway.
It came my last year in academia. I intended to resign in May, after 17 years on faculty. Early that fall, a young man showed up in my class wearing only his skivvies. And I do mean, only his skivvies.
I politely asked him to go get dressed and return, but he refused. “I paid for this class,” he replied, settling into his seat. I spent a few more moments trying to persuade him and quickly realized that this must be what it’s like trying to reason with a two-year-old. Impossible.
I didn’t think of any of the strategies the Monday-morning quarterbacks later suggested: to summon the campus police, or tell the other students to handle the situation. Instead, I took a few minutes to gather myself, and gave a kick-ass lecture. I wasn’t going to let him cheat the entire class out of their day’s education.
Sometimes the world makes our Do-Over! easy to embrace. A partner cheats, or a boss gives the promotion to someone else. Or a boy shows up in his tighty-whiteys
(PS: My new audiobook makes its debut this Monday. Do-Over! How Women Are Reinventing Their Lives. It’s filled with more Do-Over! stories.)