Ten year is definitely the baby reunion. I think it may also be the existential crisis reunion, too.
Back in college, we all thought we were going to make a difference.
After all, we were young and bright, with our whole lives stretching before us. We were connecting with one another in long, late night conversations and debates. Our professors, some of the best in academia, actually made time to have coffee and discuss our ideas. And that soon-to-be published poet chatting with that future physicist? Pure synergy in the making. We were beautiful in that way that the young are.
Ten years is long enough for a few of us to have actually taken significant steps towards that brighter future. We now count among our ranks producers and actors with actual television, Broadway, and film credits; a few writers with published books; political operatives who have actually risen above the rank of intern; and others well along the path to possible greatness.
And the rest of us?
I’ve always wanted to be a mama, and my daughter is the light of my life.
But padding through the streets of New Haven on my increasingly swelling feet, carrying almost 50 pounds more than in yesteryear (only about 25 of which is junior’s fault), with one eye on a toddler, making superficial chit chat with people who I used to fancy knew my soul, could be crushing at times.
Captain Dad took great pleasure introducing his beautiful daughter and then, pointing in the direction of my swelling belly, “And this is junior.” And I suppose some of my swelling could have been pride, as well. But “breeding” was not really a major at our university.
We stayed in campus housing and our “roomate” echoed my own anxieties. I thought I would have more to say than I am a mother and a freelance writer. What was it I used to dream, wide-eyed, waking?
And possibly I’m projecting, but on the drunken visages of the few remaining single men, I seemed to notice a dawning disappointment in their lucrative, but ultimately ordinary jobs. With more time for the gym, most of them had shed the initial pounds from rich, corporate dinners they put on before the five year. Their bodies had slimmed and their wallets grown more bloated. But, perhaps the mid-six figures isn’t all it is cracked up to be?
What is the good life? And where will we find it, venturing out of the tower? And, do we have the courage to live it?