While navigating my way to a doctor’s appointment yesterday afternoon I almost ran over approximately fourteen different members of the Deering High School Class of 2009.  Ah, the jaunty caps, the blinding hope, and the strapless dresses peeking out from under polyester gowns.  I was annoyed, of course, because I was running late (and that’s my go-to emotion).

I graduated from high school eight years ago.  Sweet baby Jesus, eight years ago I was forty pounds overweight, rocking a J Crew dress and a nose stud, and walking down an aisle with the shortest and creepiest guy in my class (lining up by height never works in my favor).  I don’t really remember the ceremony besides the speech I had to give.  I remember being the only girl smoking a cigar on the front lawn with the boys.  I remember a brief lunch with my family at the house, opening a box that contained little Tiffany studs which I promptly exchanged for a silver cuff necklace that I have yet to wear (and that doesn’t go with the mall studs I got a few years later AT ALL).  I remember my parents dropping me off at the SuperSecretProjectGraduation event.

Project Graduation I remember in detail.  My mother apologizing to me in advance because the thing had been planned by a particular group of women that my very kind and quiet mother described as “tyrannical”.  Matching t-shirts  handed out on the bus (mine: size Large).  Shuttled to a bizarre boat tour that took us to an apparently haunted island where we had a lobster dinner prepared by two women who were both hunchbacked.  A sub par comedy show following dinner (preformed by a comedian that I had actually hooked up with the previous winter).  Back to the boat, then on to the local equivalent of Chuck E Cheese.  Back to the bus, onto the most rundown movie theater in town to watch Pearl Harbor.  Then bussed out (still in the rain) to a park 20 miles away where we were given stale bagels and cream cheese and no coffee.

Still with me?  Well, then you did better than I.  Because I fell asleep every time we got back on that bus.  And I snore.  So, yeah, that really cemented my legacy within a class of 40 people.  It was a miserable, miserable evening.  And though it may have kept all of us from getting alcohol poisoning that evening the memory of it makes me long for a martini.

But I did have hope.  I was off to a Seven Sisters in the fall, my first choice school.  I had a close group of friends that I loved.  I had more male interest than I knew what to do with.  I was going to graduate from college with honors, rock the Smith alumni circle, and land a job writing for Jane magazine in New York.

Yeah.

There are few things that can thrill like an acceptance letter.

Especially an acceptance letter with a lot of money in it.

I’d like to be allowed to go bounce around in excitement now, but I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t mention it to my boss.

I don’t think I fully realized how immersed in living I alone I truly was til boyfriend came to visit.  For nine days.  NINE.

Cause boyfriend brought stuff.  And it’s not really everywhere (because he’s ocd like that) but it’s some places.  My shower looks like an aisle of Rite Aid.  He left his socks on the couch.  My fridge is full to bursting because he needs different lunch meats than I do and he needs half and half while I need skim.  Horror of all horrors, there is also a office chair of ex-husband proportions in my formally pretty, feminine office because boyfriend needs it for his back.

Let’s just say that if we make it through this week I’m still strongly considering taking cohabitation off the table.

I’m wearing the same pants for the second time this work week and a sweater that I’m pretty sure is from 1999.

And I didn’t have time to shower after bikram before coming back to the office.

I would gross myself out if I didn’t find it all kind of amusing.

I’m spending my weekend in a town where the local grocery store didn’t have bananas but did have this display in the produce section:

Really

I’ll be packing up for another fun-filled trip this evening when I get home at 9:30.  Tomorrow morning I’ll be boarding a flight at 7am to my favorite airport of all time, Philly, followed by another flight to my second favorite airport of all time, Salisbury.  The Salisbury Maryland airport is so small that it doesn’t have a bathroom on the other side of security.  It has ten chairs in the waiting area.  It’s been my experience that only USAir prop planes that were built in 1980 are allowed to fly in and out of Salisbury.  It’s comforting when your armrests have ashtrays.

I’ve become quite the frequent flier with my job.  I can pack a carry-on bag in under five minutes, and have the perfect list of necessary plane survival items (pashmina, headphones, neck pillow, Valium) on stand-by.  Yes, I’m the person behind the elderly in security sighing loudly as I hear yet another explanation of why this medication is not in the Ziploc bag even though it is in fact a liquid.  No, you can’t wear your belt through the metal detector.  Multiple times I’ve been grateful for the Valium during the screening more than the actual flight. 

I’ve also become adapt at the art of not checking a bag for a trip under five days.  When I last met M at the airport he immediatly started complaining about the weight of my bag.  When I pointed out that was the only bag I had brought with me his eyes widened.  “You mean you carried on?” he whispered with awe.  And then I think he fell a little bit more in love with me.

Because boyfriend’s quite the experienced traveler himself.  He averages about 2 flights per week and has recently purchased the quintessential old man rolling carry-on from Tumi (thank god, because I couldn’t deal with one more conversation about if he should or should not purchase said hideous item).  He was more excited to show me the packing job he did for Israel (packing cubes included) than to get me into bed on his last arrival to Maine.  A year ago we stumbled upon the holy grail of travel size everything in a Bed, Bath, and Beyond and it may have been the best date we’ve ever had.  We still talk about it in hushed tones “remember that time we found the Tide travel detergent and the sample size of the exact scent and brand of your regular deodorant in one place?  That was a good day”.

But I’m getting tired of this, the constant back and forth, having to board Izzi, and staying in unsavory cities.  I miss my friends, my family, my dog, and my routine.  The phone call that came while I was typing this entry?  A request for to book two more trips for myself in the next month. 

Time to break those drugs out…

I had big plans to recap 2008 in a witty and brilliant post.  While that may well happen when I get bored at work again, I’ve mainly got the energy to recap the past three weeks.

We had a lovely family trip to Sonoma and San Fransisco.  We only thought about screaming at each other on limited occasions.  We had Christmas Breakfast at McDonald’s because the rest of the family doesn’t have the neurotic need to plan that I do.  We drank wine. 

I scored seven points lower on my LSAT than my average practice score.  This means that my top schools are no longer even a pipe dream, and I will be applying to six different schools.  If I am not offered admission to my favorites or the timing and aid is not right I will have to take the LSAT again in June and apply to schools for 2010.  The unfairness of standardized testing and the six months of rigorous studying weren’t enough to equal each other out after all.  The emailed score was honestly more heartbreaking than anything else that happened this year and I still haven’t dealt with it.  It’s difficult to motivate to finish my applications with the knowledge that this number doesn’t reflect my ability to score well on the LSAT or the sort of law student (and lawyer) I know I can be.

And finally, one little robin’s egg blue gift box and I’m back into the boyfriend game…

So, a fun thing about having mono and having to tell people that you have mono is that they will IMMEDIATELY ask you who you’ve been making out with.

Shouldn’t I have at least gotten some action if I have the disease to go with it?  And why can’t I have enough tact to stop telling random people (like my boss) how long it’s been since I kissed someone? 

Maybe mono affects your spleen and your filter.

Cnn lost me with the holograms.  Am I the only one that sang the theme song to Jem the second it appeared?

So I’m watching Family Guy from bed while hitting refresh on my iPhone every few minutes.

Which brings me back to the daily question of if technology has improved or just complicated my life.