October 2003

Fizzle and a Spark
Memories of 1993

Part I:
I'm not that old, am I?

A few weeks ago, a Baltimore area High School held it's ten-year reunion for the Class of 1993 at the restaurant where I work. The graduates drank and eat in the large dining room. They mingled, laughed and had what looked like a pretty good time. They partied for a good long time, in fact. That didn't bother me. Their faces bothered me. Why? Because they looked real old.

I looked the crowd over and over again. Nothing seemed too unusual. The men looked like they had gained a few pounds, and that's no surprise. The ladies, for the most part, looked as if they'd been dieting for the past ten weeks. They were bony, not toned. That was expected. That did not make me feel insecure. I asked some of the younger servers to take a look at the group, and none of them thought the Class of 1993 looked a day under 30. My next question was, of course, "Do I look that old?"

I don't. I am blessed with a bit of a baby face. I am not losing my hair, and my eyes are as blue as the day I was born. The weight I've gained since I gradated from high school (10 pounds - 185 then, 195 now) keeps the wrinkles, if any, from becoming prominent. I'm young at heart as well, and we all know the benefits of that! Recently, I'd spent some time with a friend of mine from high school at the Pig Roast, and while he looked older than he did back then, I would never guess that he's over 30. Until I saw this group of men and women, all my age, thereabouts, I thought 28 was young. I was wrong.

Now I feel all old all the time. It's not enough that most of the people with which I work are either 20, 21 or 22, but couple that with the images in my mind of THAT Class of 1993 Reunion and I feel like an old man. This is totally not fair.

Part II:
The Fizzle and the Spark

My idealized memories of the first few months of college, when thought of with respect to my fantasies of college as a high school graduate, always leave me cold. I was never as witty as I wanted to be, never lucky as I thought I'd be, and I never became a professional wrestler. College, outside of being a necessary next step in the life of an average American male, represented uncharted territory, a new set of reigns, if you will. For me, I left for college just in the nick of time.

When I think about it, by the time I left for college, I needed to leave anyway. In all honesty, I'd taken from my home town just about all it had to give by the end of my junior year. There is so precious little one can do in a suburban town that is not zoned for business. My senior year was spent doing much, but, for the most part I was wasting my time.

I'll grant you, dressing in drag for my Senior Prom was pretty awesome, but that was more a case of me grabbing the bull by the horns than anything else. I was past my peak - trying desperately to make time seem like less of a waste.

Maybe it was not that bleak, but it certainly had been better, and that's the point.

When I was a sophomore, I had the world at my feet. Some friends of mine and I, nearly every weekend, held a party in someone's parent's basement. We had dancing and whatnot. For the first few months it was real clean cut and nice. The guys and girls came in hopes of a hook-up, or at least to have some fun. No one was drinking yet, but that was the point. Even now, looking back on the fall of 1990, I do not regret having take parties because of all the fun I had. Besides, as time went by, we pushed the envelope.

As the year progressed, our parties became more elaborate and creative. We had a good time all the time.

By the time senior year rolled around, we were not having the same kind of parties we once did. By then, still interested in getting some action and being a little buzzed, we could not simply gather in any basement, we had to improvise. Long story short, we'd exhausted our resources. We all needed to get out and ply our trade in other lands.

For all their faults, the late summer and fall of 1993 were great because they were full of firsts for me. I feel real old when I think about it this way, but them's were some of the good old days (as much as there is no such thing as the good old days, they were what they were.)

I feel a pressure to finish my last few "Memories of 1993" with lessons I can pass on to you all, or maybe some food for thought, if nothing else. Unfortunately, I don't think I am ready to impart any wisdom unto you because there is nothing to give. Unless you are 15 years old, and in which case you could care less about what I learned from obsessing about my life, and how it's different from what it was 10 years ago. Christ, what did I get myself into?

Back in February, I wrote "maybe, I will become comfortable in my own time." I thought that in writing about my longing for the past, I could find joy in my life right now. That was a lofty aspiration, what with my impending unemployment, the months and months of joblessness, and having to settle for a job that only barely keeps my head above water. Comfortable is subjective. Right now, I am in the midst of a great change - for well or ill, I don't know. It could be that looking back at my last great change will help me prepare for the approaching opportunities in my life. Who knows? That kind of ending is too hokey and too Dr. Phil for my blood.

I do not want to leave you with a message of hope, mostly because I don't have that to give. That's not my department. Maybe next month I'll be closer to something worth sharing.