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remembrance of semesters past
From time to time, when I find myself seized by a fit of nostalgia, I stay up until very questionable hours Googling the names of old friends and acquaintances from high school. It is a strange and twisted kind of "Where Are They Now?" game that I play with myself in my head. I have turned up all sorts of intriguing anecdotes about some of these people: point man on the U.S fencing team, editor-in-chief of a national knitting magazine, reporter for the entertainment industry.
A while ago, on one of these misguided quests, I came across this: Ed Eigerman's Star Thingy.
Some context first. In high school I was an annoying kid. I was nervous and low on self-esteem and wanted people to like me too badly, so I tried to ingratiate myself so much that I just got on everyone's nerves. Some people remained friendly with me anyway, bless their souls. But I figured out only in retrospect how grating I could be, and it was a hard discovery.
Ed was two years ahead of me in school. I met him in the first week of my freshman year, when I was wide-eyed and fresh-faced and nervous as hell. He came into the library with a couple of friends, looking for a fourth for canasta. I murmured that I knew how to play canasta, he turned and saw me and said, "You know canasta? Okay, follow me."
Ed is very sharp but not in any way that modern organized education can get a handle on. He is a quick wit with the loopy, inventive kind of sense of humor that appeals to me. As a high schooler with a copy of Principia Discordia, Ed founded "Val Veggie's New And Improved Police State," a society with a semihemibiweekly newsletter in which the chief pastime was making up crimes for which to turn in your fellow citizens. It was pointless and derivative and hilarious and enormous fun. I have no doubt that somewhere at home I still have old Police State newsletters, should I ever want to dig them up and embarrass Ed even further.
Back to Star Thingy. The credits list is almost a who's who of the people I hung out with in high school. Reading it, and listening to a few minutes of the play, put me through a strange sort of mental time warp, and suddenly I felt fifteen again, raw and exposed and alone.
Imagine that. Here I am: thirty-five, with a good career that appears to be going up, two fantastic kids, an amazing spouse and any number of people who would be there for me at 2am if I was in trouble—and I'm thinking of these guys, getting together on some Saturday afternoon to record this silly, aimless skit. Without me.
What a kick in the pants life can be sometimes.
I know this is nonsense. For heaven's sake, we're creeping up on twenty years. I've run into enough of my high school classmates to get a sense of how much they (and I) have mellowed out, and I'm sure that if I saw one of these people today they would not make up an excuse to be somewhere else. But it seems like having been the annoying kid is a hard legacy to outlive.
A while ago, on one of these misguided quests, I came across this: Ed Eigerman's Star Thingy.
Some context first. In high school I was an annoying kid. I was nervous and low on self-esteem and wanted people to like me too badly, so I tried to ingratiate myself so much that I just got on everyone's nerves. Some people remained friendly with me anyway, bless their souls. But I figured out only in retrospect how grating I could be, and it was a hard discovery.
Ed was two years ahead of me in school. I met him in the first week of my freshman year, when I was wide-eyed and fresh-faced and nervous as hell. He came into the library with a couple of friends, looking for a fourth for canasta. I murmured that I knew how to play canasta, he turned and saw me and said, "You know canasta? Okay, follow me."
Ed is very sharp but not in any way that modern organized education can get a handle on. He is a quick wit with the loopy, inventive kind of sense of humor that appeals to me. As a high schooler with a copy of Principia Discordia, Ed founded "Val Veggie's New And Improved Police State," a society with a semihemibiweekly newsletter in which the chief pastime was making up crimes for which to turn in your fellow citizens. It was pointless and derivative and hilarious and enormous fun. I have no doubt that somewhere at home I still have old Police State newsletters, should I ever want to dig them up and embarrass Ed even further.
Back to Star Thingy. The credits list is almost a who's who of the people I hung out with in high school. Reading it, and listening to a few minutes of the play, put me through a strange sort of mental time warp, and suddenly I felt fifteen again, raw and exposed and alone.
Imagine that. Here I am: thirty-five, with a good career that appears to be going up, two fantastic kids, an amazing spouse and any number of people who would be there for me at 2am if I was in trouble—and I'm thinking of these guys, getting together on some Saturday afternoon to record this silly, aimless skit. Without me.
What a kick in the pants life can be sometimes.
I know this is nonsense. For heaven's sake, we're creeping up on twenty years. I've run into enough of my high school classmates to get a sense of how much they (and I) have mellowed out, and I'm sure that if I saw one of these people today they would not make up an excuse to be somewhere else. But it seems like having been the annoying kid is a hard legacy to outlive.
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Sometimes I turn comments off when I think that's a possibility, because I don't want anyone to feel like they have to respond. I write because I want to share, and the writing itself can help with the catharsis, but not necessarily because I need the feedback.
though, that said, the feedback is always good to hear; and yours especially. :-)
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Yes, I know that feeling precisely.
though, that said, the feedback is always good to hear; and yours especially. :-)
I'm glad. :-)
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I get out of touch with people, and then get shy about getting back in touch, which makes things worse. Sometimes I can summon my courage to write a "how are you?" note, but more often I fail. I have to make big efforts to be friendly so I won't be lonesome, and it can be a struggle.
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But I know what you mean.
I don't have the taped record of things I wasn't there for, but I suspect it wouldn't bother me as much as the crystal clear memories, maybe one for each year of my childhood (in other words I'm still waiting for my 2006 one), of mortifying moments. I don't feel like I was especially more annoying or ingratiating than most, but when I string together these moments in my brain, I have to tell myself that everyone has these, and remind myself of the good moments preserved in amber (and the tens of thousands of others that were probably just fine because they weren't memorable in that negative way.)
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