So we are down to the two Davids on American Idol. I am betting on Archuleta, though I could go either way. Cook is good, and probably more original, and probably more talented, but the raspiness makes me want to clear my throat, or pop a lozenge. Ow. Also, it seems like the producers and judges have too much power in the finale - they can assign one person a great song and the other person a sucky song, and effectively slant the competition. And trotting out Ruuuuben! at the end to celebrate me home was just shoving our noses in Velveeta. Really. Gagh!
Meanwhile, I am just hitting the wall on exercise. I need to get busy and sign up for a 5K and force myself to go to bed earlier, and get up earlier so I can get in a run or strength DVD before the kids get up. Anytime after that just isn't feasible.
It's tough to go to bed when Facebook is so fascinating and absorbing, though. All these people from my present, my past, and my really long-ago past coming together in my Friends column. All kinds of catching up and seeing where people are now. It's definitely helped a lot on the "neglecting my blog" front.
Even before I joined Facebook, I've been rehashing my past a lot, particularly my teenage years. Maybe it's because I'm just a few years from my 20th reunion, or that I'm having a relapse of my youthful angst, or that I still have issues from that time that need resolving. Getting a glimpse of these people I spent time with 20 (or more) years ago stirs this pot even more. With my schoolmates in general, I wonder whether (if we had the opportunity to get together) the people we are now would give each other more of a chance than we did way back when. I like to think we've all become better people; certainly I've talked to people at reunions who I thought would never give me the time of day in high school.
As I've probably mentioned, I was a total target in middle school, and spent most of high school trying to reach the point of being both accepted and left alone. I didn't identify with any particular defined group, even the ones that are supposed to attract the smart misfit kids. I never took journalism (big regret) so I didn't work on the school paper. I didn't fit in with the drama club or the AV kids, although my inability to act, sing, dance, wear black, listen to Joy Division, or figure out how to work those big TV-VCR things was probably a factor. The pre-Ivy League group was too elite.
So I flew under the radar, tried to blend in, and really didn't know a lot of people beyond my small core of friends. And now I'm struggling with a lot of regret about that, and wanting to somehow rectify the situation, or at least put it to rest. I'm sure there were people in high school who were nice to me, who I regarded with suspicion, because at one point people would make fun of me by being publicly nice to me so other people would laugh at this. I hope I didn't blow them off. Others I simply didn't interact with - we didn't have classes or activities together. There were many tiny pockets of people who weren't part of the identifiable cliques. Though invisible to me at the time, these pockets have become apparent from running into these people here and there as a young adult, having a great conversation, and thinking, "Hey, this person seems really cool -I wish I had known him/her back then."
I also think a lot about Tom Ryan. He was a guy I met in 4th grade, even had a little crush on that year. He was in the elementary school gifted program with me, wore striped polo shirts and horn-rim glasses, was sweet but quiet. In high school, he emerged into a talented writer and editor on the school paper, with a thoughtful, wise presence, but still quiet in demeanor. He blended both with the preppy popular genius kids and the alternative AV people. He was always kind to me, if not overly friendly. I would never have dared to call him my friend, but his refusal to treat me like everyone else did was meaningful nonetheless.
Tom died suddenly of meningitis our freshman year in college, right before Thanksgiving. I couldn't get home in time for his memorial service, and nobody I knew well was there, but my memories combined with those of others who wrote tributes to him made me realize what a remarkable person he was. I'm sure he was no saint, but there was something very powerful about him nonetheless. And though other classmates of ours have died since, he is the one who stays with me, and who makes me wonder the most.
As I've passed into adulthood, career, marriage, parenthood, at each step I've wondered what Tom would have done with his life. What he would say about the events shaking our world (I am sure he would have continued to write), what positive change might have occurred because of his existence, whether he would have his own family. I sometimes want to write a letter to his parents, telling them he is still remembered, even by those who were probably a miniscule dot on his radar. And tell them that he was one of the few people I have known in my life who I believed would really make a difference. And that it's wretchedly unfair that he was taken from us much too soon. Though I didn't know him well, dare I say I miss him as he was when he left us at 18, and I miss what he could have been.
I met Tom's father once, when a memorial tree was planted at the town youth center Tom helped to found. It was probably 4 or 5 years after he died. I introduced myself and gave him my condolences and he looked at me and said "He talked about you. I'm glad to finally meet you." I still think about that flash of acknowledgment, and it still makes me cry.
I have yet to work up the guts to write the letter, but every time I'm back home and drive past that building, I look for Tom's tree.
Meanwhile, I am just hitting the wall on exercise. I need to get busy and sign up for a 5K and force myself to go to bed earlier, and get up earlier so I can get in a run or strength DVD before the kids get up. Anytime after that just isn't feasible.
It's tough to go to bed when Facebook is so fascinating and absorbing, though. All these people from my present, my past, and my really long-ago past coming together in my Friends column. All kinds of catching up and seeing where people are now. It's definitely helped a lot on the "neglecting my blog" front.
Even before I joined Facebook, I've been rehashing my past a lot, particularly my teenage years. Maybe it's because I'm just a few years from my 20th reunion, or that I'm having a relapse of my youthful angst, or that I still have issues from that time that need resolving. Getting a glimpse of these people I spent time with 20 (or more) years ago stirs this pot even more. With my schoolmates in general, I wonder whether (if we had the opportunity to get together) the people we are now would give each other more of a chance than we did way back when. I like to think we've all become better people; certainly I've talked to people at reunions who I thought would never give me the time of day in high school.
As I've probably mentioned, I was a total target in middle school, and spent most of high school trying to reach the point of being both accepted and left alone. I didn't identify with any particular defined group, even the ones that are supposed to attract the smart misfit kids. I never took journalism (big regret) so I didn't work on the school paper. I didn't fit in with the drama club or the AV kids, although my inability to act, sing, dance, wear black, listen to Joy Division, or figure out how to work those big TV-VCR things was probably a factor. The pre-Ivy League group was too elite.
So I flew under the radar, tried to blend in, and really didn't know a lot of people beyond my small core of friends. And now I'm struggling with a lot of regret about that, and wanting to somehow rectify the situation, or at least put it to rest. I'm sure there were people in high school who were nice to me, who I regarded with suspicion, because at one point people would make fun of me by being publicly nice to me so other people would laugh at this. I hope I didn't blow them off. Others I simply didn't interact with - we didn't have classes or activities together. There were many tiny pockets of people who weren't part of the identifiable cliques. Though invisible to me at the time, these pockets have become apparent from running into these people here and there as a young adult, having a great conversation, and thinking, "Hey, this person seems really cool -I wish I had known him/her back then."
I also think a lot about Tom Ryan. He was a guy I met in 4th grade, even had a little crush on that year. He was in the elementary school gifted program with me, wore striped polo shirts and horn-rim glasses, was sweet but quiet. In high school, he emerged into a talented writer and editor on the school paper, with a thoughtful, wise presence, but still quiet in demeanor. He blended both with the preppy popular genius kids and the alternative AV people. He was always kind to me, if not overly friendly. I would never have dared to call him my friend, but his refusal to treat me like everyone else did was meaningful nonetheless.
Tom died suddenly of meningitis our freshman year in college, right before Thanksgiving. I couldn't get home in time for his memorial service, and nobody I knew well was there, but my memories combined with those of others who wrote tributes to him made me realize what a remarkable person he was. I'm sure he was no saint, but there was something very powerful about him nonetheless. And though other classmates of ours have died since, he is the one who stays with me, and who makes me wonder the most.
As I've passed into adulthood, career, marriage, parenthood, at each step I've wondered what Tom would have done with his life. What he would say about the events shaking our world (I am sure he would have continued to write), what positive change might have occurred because of his existence, whether he would have his own family. I sometimes want to write a letter to his parents, telling them he is still remembered, even by those who were probably a miniscule dot on his radar. And tell them that he was one of the few people I have known in my life who I believed would really make a difference. And that it's wretchedly unfair that he was taken from us much too soon. Though I didn't know him well, dare I say I miss him as he was when he left us at 18, and I miss what he could have been.
I met Tom's father once, when a memorial tree was planted at the town youth center Tom helped to found. It was probably 4 or 5 years after he died. I introduced myself and gave him my condolences and he looked at me and said "He talked about you. I'm glad to finally meet you." I still think about that flash of acknowledgment, and it still makes me cry.
I have yet to work up the guts to write the letter, but every time I'm back home and drive past that building, I look for Tom's tree.
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