I’m beginning to question the wisdom of my parents’ significant investment in my Harvard eduction. In four years I emerged with two degrees and not one clue.
Cast In Point: The David in Florence. As I’ve confessed before, only a fool would drag me to a museum, where I transform into my own exhibit of impatience, irreverence, and idiocy. The one true exception is the Accademia del Arte where Michaelangelo’s masterpiece resides and hosts the poignant “prisoners” half carved from their marble bases. Now, I’ve had the pleasure of seeing this masterpiece in 1987, 1995, 1997, and 1999. Yes, I am one lucky girl, one very lucky and stupid girl.
It wasn’t until my 1999 viewing at age 44 that I realized this David was THE David, as in David vs. Goliath. Had I ever noticed the slingshot Davey held? No, I had not. Besides, who’d go naked to slay a giant? And The David is so huge, whereas David was the little fella that stood up to the big, bad bully. Right?
I think I owe my parents a reimbursement.