The Good Old Days ...

If I were to write all of my weird dreams down, someday I'm sure I could sell the movie rights ...

Last night I sat around a table filled with high school friends and another group of people I had little - if nothing - to do with in high school (whenever it was humanly possible to avoid them) as we sat around a table staring at plates of really bad looking pizza and bowls full of fresh cut carrots, each one of us offering a little glimpse into what our lives had become.

I remember sitting across from Brian, and noting the fact that he didn't look a bit like he had changed until he began to talk, telling the story of how he and his boss had started an affair that his wife didn't know about. And the only thing I could think of to say was, "Anyone up for a smoke?"

And so we went out on the front porch which looked out onto Westwood Drive and I could see my old mustard colored house, and Bren's house as well and we all stood outside shivering with cigarettes dangling from our hands, waiting for someone else to say something that would make sense. But the silence was deafening.

Back inside, girls were clamboring for rights in the bathroom and the popular boys talked of football, their best games and the line of girls who had begged them to wear their jersey's. My crowd milled around the edges of the room, all looking a little older, a little more responsible, and a lot less like the kids I remembered.

All in all, the dream made no sense. It had no clear start, no clear ending and no message it sought to relay.