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Sunday, May 08, 2005

Blast from the past

So mostly, I’ve been working. If I’m not working, I’m packing, And if I’m not packing, I’m knitting that blanket for my new niece. Then there’s the fun of running to the doctor every 15 minutes so she can check how I’m responding to the medicine (so far, so good), worrying about moving details and fending off my landlord, who wants to start showing the place to prospective buyers. Which he really doesn’t want to do until we fix the huge holes that Seamus dug in the carpet and wall next to the door. Except, of course, he doesn’t know about the huge holes, because why would we tell him about them?

I also managed to fit in a little Mother’s Day celebration with my mom. I took her to brunch at this restaurant she likes. And while we were there, who should I see but my unattainable high school crush, Will L. When I first realized who it was, I actually got that flustery, excited feeling in my stomach for about 7 seconds, before I remembered that a) I’m not 14 anymore and b) I’m not interested, seeing as how I’m happily married and all. I guess it was just a knee-jerk reaction. I hadn’t thought of him in years! He looked pretty much the same, and yet at the same time he didn’t. He had a little boy with him, so I guess he’s a dad. It’s so weird to think of the uber-cool, punk-rock rebel guy I knew as just another suburban dad taking his wife to Clyde’s for Mother’s Day.

My mom thought I should go over and say hi, but I didn’t want to. I have nice memories of the guy. He must have known I had a crush on him, but he was never a jerk about it. In fact, in some ways, his influence on me in my impressionable years (bad boy upperclassman, creative guy, musician) must have predisposed me to think favorably of John (slightly older, definite bad boy, creative guy, former lead singer in a band, and better looking to boot). Anyway, I figured why ruin those memories for two minutes of awkward conversation? So I stayed at my table. I do feel a wave of high school nostalgia coming on though.

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