Had my ten-year high school reunion in August. So, of course, I'm
feeling a bit traumatized by how old I'm getting.
Or, rather, the fact that by none but the most adult viewpoint am
I really young anymore.
Not many people showed--my class was 400+ strong, and probably less
than a quarter of that came to either of the reunion's two nights.
Fortunately, most of the important people were there: my first real
girlfriend; the two high school sweethearts who stayed together through
college and into marriage, and remain some of my best friends from
those years; the girl I took to my senior prom; the jock who was every
guy's best buddy and every girl's crush; the crowd that went up to
that ski resort--in the spring, with no snow--for our senior trip.
Like
I said, the important people. And the thing that struck me most was
how good they all looked. I thought all your old classmates
were supposed to get fat. Fat and bald and unhappy. If that's really
the way things are supposed to be, I've been saddled with an unusually
trim, good-looking, and happy set of classmates. A bunch of Adonises
and Aphrodites I'm now obliged to try to keep up with. Bastards.
Anyway, on the subject of getting older:
Being 17 was a hoot. Fresh out of school and confident enough in
my immortality and sense of purpose to run off to Hawaii for a year
before going to the university (I never made it, ended up joining
the Air Force instead); old enough to pass in a room full of adults
but young enough to cut loose without much fear of reprimand; financially
responsible for no one but myself, and even that only barely; enough
time left to me to put off worrying about what I wanted to be when
I grew up until some far, indeterminate future. Like I said, a hoot.
Some days, I miss that freedom, the endless possibility.
| "I thought
all your old classmates were supposed to get fat." |
On other days, it occurs to me that 27 isn't a bad place to be either.
I've got more than two dimes to rub together for one thing. I live
with a beautiful woman who, after eleven years of friendship and seven
of marriage, still reminds me at the oddest moments that I have a
lot yet to learn about her. I'm more a real person and less a collection
of the teachings and expectations of others. And nobody, nobody,
can make me eat dinner before dessert. Nobody. Except mom.
In fact, being 27 is kinda like all those people I went to school
with: Different, older, but recognizable, and still looking pretty
good.
My generation--Generation X--is known for getting a headstart on
their mid-life crises in their twenties and thirties, and on the bad
days, I suppose that's where I'm headed. But then I think of how well
my skin fits me now, and how much I still have to learn about the
people I love, and it seems silly to pine for ten years that were
spent not in the best of ways, maybe, but were at least interesting,
and were a helluva lot of fun besides.
So this is my crisis, and this is also its resolution.
No hot rods or ponytails or earrings for me. Just some thoughts jotted
down on the flight home and some good pictures of great people. Should
hold me over for the next decade at least.
Can't wait to see who shows up for the twenty.