I don’t recall much from my high school graduation. I imagine that one of my pretty classmates spoke of cherished memories, another book-smart classmate predictably mentioned hard work and determination, and the winner of the popularity contest (read: class president elections) probably paraphrased the Army’s “Be All You Can Be” campaign while Boys II Men’s “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” played over the speakers like the hidden song on the soundtrack of our lives. One thing I do remember, though, is the sight of many of my classmates shedding tears as they mourned the closing of the latest chapter of their lives and, while most passed it off as a sadness for the inevitable loss of their trivial friendships, I suspect their tears had more to do with the fear of the unknown. For most of my classmates who were conditioned to follow the pack in a desperate attempt to maintain an appearance of normality, high school graduation brought with it a terrifying world where those who thought for themselves and embraced individuality advanced, and those who didn’t stayed behind to reminisce about the “Glory Days.”
As for myself, when my high school principal stood up in the unforgiving, sweltering school gymnasium heat that June day and announced to my class that we had finally graduated high school and were now officially free to do as we pleased, I followed his advice and left, looking back only once to get one last glimpse of the school I hated and the sheepish classmates I never knew. Maybe I was ahead of my time, maybe my older sisters had given me insight into my future, and maybe my experience in those four years was just that miserable; all I know is when I left high school, I knew that the best years of my life would be found ahead of me on a path I had yet to create, rather than on the paved road of high school I was leaving behind. What I never realized was how quickly those years would pass by me.
One of my high school classmates emailed me the other day to notify me of our impending rite of passage into a quarter-life crisis: the 10 year high school reunion; that stressful evening spent with the people you hardly knew, pretending that you want to know them now, and while silently hoping they care more about your life than you do about theirs. I haven’t officially decided whether or not I’m going to attend this once-in-a-lifetime event but I won’t lie, I probably won’t. Considering I’m in touch with all of the people from high school with whom I wish to have meaningful friendships, I just can’t find all that much to be gained from my attendance. Regardless, however, the invitation has left me amazed at how helpless the passage of time makes me feel.
This past weekend, I mourned the loss of another year of my life as I celebrated my 28th birthday. Freckles treated me to dinner Friday night and, though she’ll tell you otherwise, she cooked a delicious meal. She then joined me Saturday on a hike up Vermont’s second tallest mountain, Camel’s Hump, whose peak ranks in my top five all-time favorite spots in the state. Though our stay at the top of the mountain was cut short in order to make our dinner date on time, the feelings of accomplishment inspired by the magnificent views, made it well worth the climb. The hike down the mountain in the lightening storm made me second-guess our trip, however. On the other hand, Freckles, author of the constant barrage of reminders sent my way at how important it is to live in the present rather than dwell on the future and the “what ifs?”, was impressively calm as we descended in the rain, serenaded by thunder.
Saturday night, Freckles and I met up for dinner with The Benchlys, Sister #1, her husband, Niece #1, and Niece #2. The night, which appeared to be capping off a perfect birthday, nearly turned tragic when Mama Benchly began to struggle for air, her face flushed from fear and pain. While I was paralyzed by an anxious shock, my brother in law, a volunteer fireman, stepped in to take charge of the situation and quickly determined that her airway was blocked, not by food, but by the swelling from an allergic reaction caused by the mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat my mother had mistakenly consumed moments earlier. When a handful of hits from her inhaler provided little to no relief, my brother in law ran to the store next-door and returned soon after with Benadryl, an antihistamine often used to combat allergic reactions. Mama Benchly downed the Benadryl while an imaginary crowd of fraternity brothers cheered her on and shortly thereafter, her breathing began to improve.
While Mama Benchly’s breathing, though still somewhat pained, returned to normal, the evening’s lessons learned of the fragility of the mortal life put me in a thoughtful mood from which I have yet to emerge. Stated simply, my mother’s allergic reaction was the scariest sight I had ever witnessed in my short life, and, on a day spent celebrating the latest year of my life, it served to remind me of how quickly life can be taken from us and, as Freckles always says, that our lives are too short for us to spend much time worrying about the hundred different potential consequences of our actions.
And so here I sit 10 years after my high school graduation and four days into my 28th year, awaiting word from the representatives from another Vermont publishing company with whom I interviewed this morning. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be offered this editing job, which will point my career in the right direction while allowing me more time to write. But if, for whatever reason, I failed to properly sell myself and my skills to the interviewers, I’ll be able to sleep at night because I’ll know that my life was too short for me not to have tried at all.
Benchly'sword 