Hanging with the Hah-vahd Crowd

Harvard Club

#426: Staying at the Harvard Club

I strangely do not know even one person who went to Harvard.

Correction, I know one person, a former boss who barely acknowledged my existence for about four years.  Four years during which I was frequently pretending to BE him (because it was my job, not because I am a weird stalker or anything.)

But, in the scheme of people who acknowledge that they know me (which does include MOST of the people I know) not a single one of them went to Harvard.  I am not sure if this is because I actively don’t like people who attend Harvard, or whether our path’s haven’t crossed.  I have no frame of reference for what it might be like to hang out with Harvard people, or certainly what it would be like to be in a place where there are exclusively Harvard people.  Like, The Harvard Club.

North American Harvard Clubs - who knew?There are, surprisingly enough, 200 Harvard Clubs worldwide (I had to look that up, because I kind of thought there was a “THE” Harvard Club, but there is not.)  I am guessing that the one in Boston is THE “real” one, that’s the one at HarvardClub.com and the unadorned URL always implies legitimacy in my universe.  There are two in Pennsylvania, possibly more likely candidates for where I might hang out, but I don’t really feel like hrcphilly.com implies quite the same Harvard-ness as the other.

From all I can glean from my half-assed research, it seems like a country club restaurant/catering facility.  But without the actual sports element. Not really my scene, but I can be lured into a decent outfit and trusted not to embarrass myself too royally in a nice place.  From time to time.

I don’t get super excited about this sort of thing, I am a little (lot) less about the prestige of it all and a little (lot) more about being comfortable.  But for the sake of this assignment, let’s get me into the Harvard Club.

It appears that my valid paths in include:

* Being invited there by one of my Harvard alumni friends (we have already established this is not possible)

* Being invited there by some new person who I met who went to Harvard and wants to impress me mightily with that fact (unlikely since I don’t talk to strangers and am not all that impressed by that sort of thing.)

* Having a family member go to Harvard.  BINGO!

My kids are smart.  They have not yet attended college (as they are 11 and 13, I am not disappointed by this.)

So, if they go to Harvard, and graduate, and make enough money to join the Harvard Club (which is not cheap, I tell ya), and want to show off to their mother, and somehow can convince me that this is more fun that pizza, then I will gain access to the Harvard Club.

I guess I would stay there if they didn’t want me to stay with them, but that would make me sad.

If they can afford a membership to the Harvard Club and can’t find room in their home (and their heart) for their beloved mother to stay with them, I will be super disappointed.  I mean, DAMN, I sent them to HARVARD!! A little appreciation, people!!

I don’t want to stay at the Harvard Club.  I want to sleep on the pull out futon thing.  I want to order pizza, and watch movies, and sit in a big pile of blankets and people and dogs.   And in the morning we’ll make waffles and coffee and sit around the table and talk about nothing in particular.

Because that is the kind of thing I DO get super excited about.

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This post is part of a series inspired by prompts from the book 642 Things to Write About by the San Francisco Writers’ Grotto.  If you want to play along, write your own post (on your blog or other online forum) and post a link in the comments.  I’ll add “shout-outs” at the end of my post and on the Keep Swimmin’ Facebook page to anyone who shares a link.

About Kristen

Me: Kristen, 40-something (there's no need to be more specific), suburban mom of 2, working girl, therapeutic writer Addictions: Iced Coffee, FOMO resulting in twitchy compulsion to check FB/Instagram/Twitter/Pinterest in an unending loop, texting, hugging my children, yelling at my dog

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