I got home from work last night giddy from my successful presentation. "Oh yea," I thought, and probably, ok....did say out loud, "I rock." I was poised, articulate, appropriately funny. Heavens, I gushed, I'm so good. And I'm so young to be so good. I sauntered in the door and E said there was a voice message for me from a very perky person who said something about "high school reunion." Actually, the words "20 years" were somewhere around the "high school reunion" words. High school reunion. 20 YEARS. Same sentence. Not, you're "20," you won't have a high school reunion of any significance for 3 more years, but "20 year high school reunion."
I. Am. Old.
I remember so vividly, so clearly being 18 years old and graduating from high school, heading off to college. I remember the yellow leggings and long matching yellow t-shirt with decorative sparkles (it was the 80's, people) I wore on a date with my cute California boy fling the summer after I graduated. My gaggle of high school friends. Big Hair. My zippy little Honda CRX. Black of course. The promises to always stay in touch, to visit one another, the butterflies in my stomach about what was to come. Who would I be? And would I ever be 21? On my own. On. My. Own. An adult.
20 years. Graduation from college. Marriage. Divorce. Sadness. Guilt. Hope. Joy. Law school. Love. Marriage. Success. Travel. Float-on-a-cloud-happiness. So much life has been packed into 20 years. But yet, I remember it like it was yesterday.
I'm not nostalgic for my teens or twenties. From a very young age, I chafed at the boundaries of being young and dependent. I wanted to drive, to make my own money, to live in an apartment, to travel, to be the boss of me. I wouldn't trade me now for an 18 year old me in a million years, except of course for my 18 year old eggs. (I just chuckled out loud thinking of how immature I was yet utterly convinced of my maturity. Silly girl. )
But still, 20 years.