Mom Got Even

Then the company chimed in

“I remember that little guy too. He was so cute. And he used to dress up and put on plays in the living room.”

Then the teenage reincarnation of said little boy began to get mad. What was all this talk of “was cute?” And what makes him so much better? (For starters, his costumes and narratives were the work of a total hack.)

Then Mom made a big mistake. She asked a rhetorical question.

“What ever happened to him?”
“He’s dead,” I said, mumbling under my breath.
“What?”
“He’s dead. All you have are memories.”

Silence. In retrospect it’s kind of funny. I’ve never said anything so melodramatic in my life. And if she weren’t a mom, I’d have probably had a hard time believing she took me seriously. But needless to say, I still carry the guilt.

Fast forward to this fall. I had just returned home from moving out of my college house. The summer had been a sequence of false endings, beginning with graduation, a return week visit, and then a final “move out weekend.” Each time I said some goodbyes, but it never seemed quite over until a few days ago, when we took down our hand-painted “No Parents Allowed” wooden sign, and threw out our ultimate shrine to sarcasm, a fresco sized Mariah Carrey poster. They had both come to symbolize our collegiate antics, childish and bursting at the seams with jack-assery. But as I stood in the kitchen, talking to my mom about how college was really over now, about how I would never have that little responsibility, and how there were some people I would never see again, she interrupted me with what I would now consider the cruelest statement known to mankind: “It was the best four years of your life.” She had always said, “it will be.” But now she had the brass to say “it was.”

And for a second I thought she was kidding. I mean, she had to be, right? Aren’t mom’s supposed to say that about every part of your life? Maybe she’s just getting even with me for what I said when I had more pimples than years on this planet. Or maybe she’s right and I should be appreciative of these fruits from the tree of motherly wisdom.

They really were the best four years of my life. No lying. I made more friends and experienced more crazy, inane, harebrained, and youthfully exuberant activities than I could have ever imaged as a fifteen year old, sitting in the den playing Strat-O-Matic by myself and watching Snick. I met my best friends on that second day of college and proceeded to hang out with them and only them for the rest of the year. We went to some frat parties. One of us rushed, then found out we hated jock parties with sloppy freshmen girls in those Wilma Flintstone tops. I had my first girlfriend complete with an extended and heart wrenching breakup my sophomore year.

I decided to take up a socially acceptable non-addictive drug in the hopes that I could identify with more people. Instead I had my first, and so far only, bout of depression, which spawned a sometimes-crippling existential outlook. But by the time senior year rolled around, I was in possession of a newfound confidence. I went on tour to the American South lands with my friend’s band and had two minor near death experiences (one involving trespassing in an abandoned zoo and the other hiking through a state forest at night with a vague sense of direction and a lighter). I also began writing for the student newspaper and making a whole new group of friends.

I backpacked across Europe, and as I returned to college, I prepared to say my goodbyes. Some were to friends that didn’t get to be friends for as long as I hoped and others were to friends I had effectively said goodbye to nearly a year ago. It was sad in all respects, but not as sad as the prospect I am currently faced with: making sure it was only one of the best times of my life.

I went on a job interview today for a small town weekly newspaper. While waiting in the office I observed water cooler banter between middle-aged women and I felt a sudden pang of, “so this is what my life could be like?” What happened to the big stories I got to write for the student newspaper? What happened to interviewing rock bands and big-shot university officials? Why am I applying for a job that wants me to attend borough council meetings and churn out the same fill-in-the-facts templated articles?

“Gotta start somewhere,” says a parents’ friend. “Welcome to the real world.”

I’m beginning to think these phrases I hear my parents and their adult friends say to me are really just a measure of self-validation. Who else but someone that settled for “just getting by” instead of pursuing goals and pressing for opportunities would say something like that? Right?