Reminiscing

I was reminiscing the other day about 1990 – a year in which I was enjoying looking 18, though not quite there - if you know what I mean. When I close my eyes I see myself as that teen girl, getting whatever she wanted, doing whatever she wanted and not caring about consequences. I wonder where that spark for life went. Byegones . . .

I had a boyfriend then or there about – if you could call him that. He was more than a boyfriend really or maybe less a boyfriend more a friend – my first true love and my first true heartbreak – anyway, he was my off and on for many years – my f*&k buddy as it were. To this day, I consider him my oldest friend.

Let’s call him Hair – or Starshine, which is what I called him and still sometimes do. I was going through a “Hair” the musical phase and well – the nicknames fit him. His hair was nearly as long as mine! That and since I picked him up or woke him up for school most mornings by singing “Good Morning Starshine . . .” the names were tailor-made.

Anyway, I was thinking about 1990 which made me start thinking about him. There were surprisingly few days for years that we spent time apart. Seriously, we were together – EVERY SINGLE DAY for several years. The only time we were not together was when I went on vacation or he went to his dad’s. I remember one summer especially, where I spent a lot of time in Eastern Shore Maryland. I remember coming home that summer with a really silly gift for him (a plane made out of Bud cans) only to find out he’d decided to start “dating” a new girl. Unluckily for her, he liked me better . . . *snicker* and we picked up where we left off – poor girl.

So, I was thinking of him and how I would run to him as my standard. We weren’t exclusive, hell we never even admitted to being a couple save for sophomore year in high school and a brief few weeks in junior high. Yet, he was my standard, my constant, my best friend. I held his hair when he puked, he’d hold mine . . . you get the picture.

Despite dating or just casually screwing other people (we were in high school in the boonies, there was nothing else to do), we were together nearly every single day during high school. It was not unusual that I would turn to him when I was lonely or turn to him when I was crazy. So, as an adult I wonder, why it feels unusual that I turn to him still? Not physically – not now, we are different people now. No, I turn to him emotionally – though in a less obvious way, I still turn to him or rather I think of him when I am in a spot. In fact, I’d avoided emailing or calling him until very recently, despite all the issues we’ve had lately. I broke down and called him (we usually only chat by email). It was like jumping into a wayback machine and turning it to 1990.

His voice is exactly the same. He still makes me laugh and I could close my eyes and remember walking arm-in-arm with him down the biology hall in high school with the biology teacher calling me Mrs. *Hair* and me rolling my eyes. I never wonder “what if” because I know if we stayed together we would have killed each other – we would have seriously hurt one another. No, I never wonder “what if” with him. But I still hold a place for him in my heart, and I like to think I hold a place in his – if only as the annoyingly persistent, yet constant force of nature from his teen years.

He continues to be a source of amusement for me. We email, talk dirty, discuss our children, say naughty things, discuss our spouses, say mean things, and in the end we are still dear friends.

I’ve often wondered if it is wrong that I still love him or rather the thought of him – as he was in 1990. I wonder whether the sands of time have stayed still in my mind too long. I wonder if he remembers what he wrote in my high school year book or if he’d forgotten that Kansas Concert. I wonder whether the footprints we left on the beach at the lake those many years ago – remain, whether our laughter still hangs in the air at the old trailer park. I wonder whether when he hears Clapton or Ozzy, he remembers sitting around a crowded “smokey” table singing Layla or If I Close My Eyes Forever in rounds. I wonder if he drinks bourbon on the rocks out of an ice-tea glass in my memory – or if when he watches episodes of As the World Turns, he thinks of me. And then I smile. A big broad smile, because I can’t forget. I haven’t forgotten late nights, guitars and beer. I haven’t forgotten getting kicked out by his mom, getting sick in the big tub or fights in the parking lot with rivals. I haven’t forgotten school mornings, chocolate chip cookies in the afternoon or Dairy Queen – the only time he ever paid . . . I haven’t forgotten phone calls made from a payphone at the beach, or impromptu band practice at my house. I haven’t forgotten detention during sex ed – because our “notes” made the teacher blush.

I can remember snippets of conversations - or arguments - I remember what some friends wore then, i can remember the exact things we said, the exact song playing and why I was crying when we drove home from the Clapton concert. I remember the truly sad and heartfelt conversation we had right after a family funeral and a visit to his wacky aunt's. I remember learning to play Euker (I can't play now). I remember curling up on the couch with him after school, while his flavor of the month got pissed off (I dont remember any of their names). I remember getting alcohol poisoning - from booze he bought me - on my 16th birthday and sleeping in his sister's tub. I remember all of that like it was yesterday. But I can't remember what I did last week.

I haven’t forgotten ball practices, walking to Erikson’s for ice cream, cards or trivial pursuit and much, much more. I bet he has. I haven’t forgotten because some small part of me – believe me a very, very, very small part of me – wishes those days never ended. Days when I felt like I belonged for the first time ever. Though I’d never ever want to be a teen again, some part of me misses the freedom. Reality, however, grounds me. Reality, with a little paranoia mixed in for good measure. I’m ok with who I’ve become, but my life and experiences were in part shaped by him and for that I thank him, until I reminisce again . . .