My 20 year high school reunion is this Friday. Yes, TWENTY. YEARS.
Where did all that time go? I hardly know, but it certainly passed. The other night I got sucked into reading a collection of “bios” that some of my former, fellow students left on a social media platform. It seems that some people have changed. Others, not so much. Yes, that is my report. Afterward, I just felt all the more alien. My story has been different than most. Not better, not worse; but definitely different. There’s no disputing facts: I am a 38 year-old, unmarried male. I have no children. I have a job. And I live in Utah. The rest is all a story.
So which one do I tell? Do I tell about the one about the hero, or the one about the villain? The champion, or the failure? The one that is most painful, or one that is more…. ‘rosy’? I can tell them all. But I can’t in a paragraph, or a page, or even a volume. It’s simply too much. What have I become, anyway? And what does that even mean?
The truth is, I didn't like High School. And I don’t direct that at anyone in particular. Sure, there were some assholes that made it more challenging. Really challenging. But it really was just a time of discomfort for me. Trying to identify who I was, or where I fit in. Dealing with hormones, young love, scholastic demands, religious pressures. Then graduating, and shortly afterward being defined by a whole population for choices I made when I was only a teen. I was uncomfortable. I was underdeveloped. I was confused. I was not ready.
It’s become ever more clear to me in adulthood that in most scenarios, the way you think the world sees you, is really the way you see yourself. And almost certainly the way you see the world. And these stories can cripple us. They can fuel us. They can put us in dark, dark places. On the contrary, they can fill us with delusions of grandeur. I’ve never been one to entertain those, although sometimes I wish I could.
Today I’m not feeling well. I got a horrible night’s sleep. In fact, it’s been several weeks of that. And sleeping well is usually a strong suit of mine. So no sleep? Why? Probably the stresses of work, and relationships, and living in a 1/4 remodeled home with an endless “to do” list. Who knows, maybe I’m inhaling lead paint dust. It’s crossed my mind.
I’ve lived all around the country. I finished college. I worked jobs I had to. I worked jobs I hated. I’ve been poor. I’ve been scared. I’ve been down. But I’ve been up, too. And worked jobs that challenged me, and paid me more than I thought I’d ever earn. I’ve loved, and I’ve lost. And I’ve seen beautiful things, and beautiful people. I’ve spent time on streets with strangers. I’ve been in wild places and seen things that I thought could only be painted with a brush. I’ve experienced so many things, and have fewer and fewer words to describe them. They’re a feeling now, and one that I wish I could share with only nod and a smile. It is my life.
I rode my new bike for the first time yesterday. It was supposed to be my “day off” from physical activity. So much for that. It was an old feeling renewed. And old love, returned. I can’t believe it took me so long to get another road bike. But there’s no room for regret of time lost. None. It is my “now”. And as I pedaled up hill after hill, and hopped out of the saddle, I told a story. There I was in the Tour, and the rush of a crowd and a flood of adrenaline. I was the underdog, and this was my moment. I reached the top, and there was no finish line. No crowd. No flashing lights. No cameras. And I returned back to earth, and the pavement, and the sound of cars, and familiar surroundings. Reality, or something like that.
So Friday night will come, and I’ll see people that I once knew. They’ll tell me about their lives, and I’ll listen intently. I’m interested to know about their lives. As for my story? I’ll tell one version or another. Nothing rehearsed, something natural. But one thing’s for sure:
My story......It’s not finished.
