But this isn't about fleeting time; that's for another day. Rather, it's about those people going back to school.
I'm not going back to school. I admit there's a certain attraction to being a career student, but I've already accumulated my fill of student loans, and I frankly have no idea what I'd do if I were to go to graduate school, other than to say "I'd go get my MBA" with the same awareness I had when I asserted I wanted to be a marine biologist when I was six. I have a mailing from RPI that reminds me when Homecoming Week is (October) and subtly hints at this fall being our five-year college reunion, which also means I'm only halfway to that ten-year benchmark most of our professors discussed when pointing out how many high-tech entrepreneurs had taken ten years between achieving their undergrad and graduate degrees.
And yet, something makes me wish I could go back to college. Not with the pressure of taking classes, of course. I'm just talking about loading my life into the back of my dad's blue Dodge pickup, driving three hours west on winding mountain highways, and pulling into the crowded fire lane behind the Quadrangle to unload boxes into a vacant dorm room. I'm talking about getting everything unpacked, and taking in the calm before the storm, where everyone settles back into a life they put on the shelf for a few months, acclimating to the campus network and off-campus weekend dinners and apartment living without doors and with friendly neighbors. I already had a dream this summer where I moved back into college only to discover I'd somehow been entirely unprepared for any of the classes I somehow hadn't registered for. I think "nightmare" would be a better term if I hadn't woken realizing college was way past tense by now.
I still remember that first weekend, maybe not as vividly as I wish I could, but there are the details that stand out more than others. I remember one spot in the triple already being occupied when I got there, as Liam had been on campus for Air Force ROTC orientation. Greg had gotten there just as I did, and we'd all accepted the furniture layout of the room as it was, because with the space we had in our forced triple, there weren't any other alternatives. I was the only one who'd brought a computer along, as I had my old Power Mac G3 when we would all be receiving our laptops before long. Part of the day was spent doing orientation activities, much as we'd done when we visited the campus for freshman orientation in mid-summer. When I was able to get online, I immediately logged into Napster and downloaded Nina Gordon's "Tonight And The Rest Of My Life," because I'd heard the song on the radio a couple times during the drive over. I'd been hopeful to catch the Bristol NASCAR race that evening, but we were committed to a so-called "Communiversity" event in scenic downtown Troy, somewhere along the Hudson that I can't even recall exactly where something quite so picturesque would be, though Google Maps would probably help. I don't recall how I got back, either, because I doubt I stayed for the whole thing, and I know Liam and Greg didn't, because they'd brought Rollerblades to expedite their escape. We got our new laptops sometime Sunday morning, but in between there, I'd allowed a few people to check their e-mail on my Mac.
What was my first class of the week? I'm sure I have a schedule sitting somewhere, but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter what it was. There were greater things happening, greater things to be remembered, than class.
It's hard to accept that was nine years ago. It dawned on me last spring, though. In a way, we had our reunion, sort of coming full-circle. Carmine's brother Chris and Joe's brother Jason were graduating, so Carmine asked if I'd want to come out for the festivities. We left after work on Friday, meeting the Sarnos in Troy. After dinner, we ventured to Hattie's for mojitos, wandering the Saratoga streets like the Broken Lizard actors in "Beerfest," finding a bar I couldn't take you to without walking the steps myself. The next afternoon, as we broke down the dorm room Chris and Jason shared that Carmine, Joe and I had shared in 2001 and 2002, we admitted that while we'd graduated four years before, we'd actually moved to campus eight years prior. Eight is a pretty small number, but when you're twenty-six, eight years seems like an awfully long time. The world was a pretty different place then.
And we were pretty different people then, too.
I mean, it's romantic to suggest how great it would be to go back to school again. Not as a twenty-eight-year-old with something resembling perspective and life experience, but as a largely-naïve twenty-year-old whose biggest taste of freedom was the lofted bed in Hunt III 1004, the option of choosing whether to go to Sage for dinner or venture to the Union for a grilled chicken-and-cheese sub or just call Hao Wei for takeout. I guess lots of things in life are like that; I started writing a book about the great experiences of my high-school career, but some of the luster wore thin when I realized how much more amazing college was. I'd venture to say my adult-life experiences have been richer and deeper still, but partially because in college, I was still measuring myself against others' expectations instead of living for myself. Those who know me know my fascination with "The Butterfly Effect" and the notion of how one change in the timeline can change everything down the timeline. And so if I sent myself back to college, I'd go as that twenty-year-old armed with just enough advance knowledge to make decisions a little differently. Part of me wants to relive all the good times, just to reinforce the details. Part of me wants to go back and make a few changes, maybe out of greed, because I'd love to have seen how both sides played out.
It'd be nice to go back, but somehow, the prospect of work tomorrow isn't quite as daunting as the prospect of class.
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