Becoming Orientated

I don't know what it is, but that word "orientated" just feels completely wrong to me; the taste of it on my tongue is foreign. One would think that the meaning of the word would shine through the pronunciation of it: to orientate oneself; to get one's bearings; to right oneself... So why does the word sound so uncomfortable?

But that's exactly what I was doing on Friday morning: becoming orientated. I've been looking forward to March 30th for almost a year now because that is the day my term at baking school officially starts - my orientation day. For the last three months I have been trying to prepare everything at work and slowly working myself up into a frenzy of anticipation. In the coming days before, I could hardly sleep and by Friday morning my stomach was in knots. I felt like a child again, starting my first day of school. I made sure to leave the house early to make sure I arrived in time and every minute of that walk was pure agony. I'm sure there were several people I passed who thought I was crazy as I practised some breathing exercises and kept telling myself repeatedly to "calm down".

Once there, the anxiety slowly started to melt away. When I entered the orientation room, I was greeted by one of the student services staff - I could finally put a face to someone I had been corresponding with for the last few months. As I made my way to my seat, another student in my program was next to me and she looked just as nervous as I was feeling. In fact, when I looked around the room, almost every student there seemed petrified and unsure. Some of them looked fresh out of high school; their eyes wide, absorbing everything while shrinking into their chairs, trying not to be noticed. I found their timidity strangely heartening; I felt extremely glad to have waited and worked for a few years before attempting this program. If I can deal with 50 real estate agents clamouring for my attention and help, I can handle this. But it makes me wonder what state I would be in if I had come here first, right after high school...

The director of the school welcomed us warmly and gave a bit of a background history on the school. We were introduced to many of the chefs and staff at the institute. Several more people presented themselves and gave us a breakdown on studies at the school. I could feel myself becoming more and more inspired after every speech. Through it all, everyone was so friendly and, above all, they urged the students to ask questions and seek extra help whenever needed.  A far cry from the uber aggressive chefs on all the "reality" tv shows who bully their staff at every opportunity. It also struck me how incredibly French the chefs are - their accents are going to take some getting used to.

After all of the presentations, we split into groups to take a tour of the school. Even now, my head is spinning. Our guide took us on a very serpentine path and I have no clue where my first class is being held on Monday. I'm just hoping that there will be someone else in my class that I can follow, or at the very least get lost with.

The very end of the tour was total chaos, bringing my anxiety levels back up a few notches. We were left in the change rooms to try on our uniforms and some people left right away to switch sizes (me being one of them). When I finally realized the tour was still ongoing, I rushed over to listen. Slowly noticing to my horror that everyone now had their bags and jackets, which had been left in the orientation room. I snuck out to grab my things not a moment too soon; the next orientation group was starting to arrive and my jacket was one of the few still left. I sheepishly avoided making eye contact with the staff and ducked out of there. When I got back downstairs, the tour seemed to be finished, but no one really knew what exactly was going on.

I finally left the 3-hour orientation feeling slightly less than orientated. Perhaps that's why the word still won't sit comfortably. As I walked home, I felt more and more exhilarated - the feeling only tempered by the growing weight of my knife kit and uniform bag on the long walk. I couldn't wait to get home and really look at my new toys. Try on my uniform and preen in front of the mirror, without 15 other girls vying to see their reflection. The trick now is just to be able to have my tools and uniform in the house for 5 minutes without everything becoming covered in cat hair...