2007
Alright, y'all, here it goes...I'm launching a new blog. I've been feeling the itch to write again lately, and I figure it's about time to start back up with my creative outlet. I came across this piece that I wrote last year, and I wanted to share it. Enjoy!
Tonight, I'm having a bit of a identity crisis stemming from the fact that somehow, without my knowledge or permission, it is 2017. That means it's been ten years since it was 2007. A couple of weeks ago, I actually wrote "07" as the date on something at work, giggled to myself at my silly mistake, and then realized I was TEN YEARS off. TEN. YEARS. Ten years have passed since 2007, and it feels like the blink of an eye.
2007, man. Every now and then, if we are lucky, we experience one of those years. You know the years I'm talking about? The ones that make an impact the size of the Chicxulub crater on your soul?
2007. Even seeing the numbers typed out makes my heart skip a beat. I wish I could describe the feeling billowing in my chest. It's a wistful pang of nostalgia, laughter, sadness, accomplishment, pride, and longing for more.
It was my year of adventure. My year of unbridled joy. My year of failure. The year of my first true self.
A few nights ago, I stumbled upon this quote in a meme, and it struck my soul: "You are always one decision away from a totally different life." Boom. It immediately had my head swirling with questions about momentous life decisions, and my thoughts kept circling back to 2007:
You see, in the spring of 2007, I had a plan. And you should probably know that, at this point in my life, I had never failed at anything before. Things in my life just seemed to work out with the greatest of ease, and I chalked it up to my hard work and determination, but never really understood that sometimes, even with hard work and determination, you fail. Don't worry-my youthful naivete was shattered shortly thereafter.
I can't remember which incredible failure came first, the Teach for America rejection, or the ID incident. Because I had basically repressed the ID incident for almost 10 years of my life, I'm thinking that might have been the first, and, obviously, the hardest to cope with.
It was a given that I was going to Grad School after I graduated from Berkeley. My parents set that expectation for me at a young age, and I just knew it was in my future. Because I was a sensible person with grand plans for life that were always going to work out, I signed up to take the GRE, a prerequisite for applying to any Graduate Program that wasn't law or medicine. I studied for months and on the eve of the test, I was impeccably prepared. The night before the test, I made sure I had my confirmation letter and my ID in my purse; the two requirements for the testing center.
The test was held in downtown San Francisco on a particularly fateful and beautiful Saturday morning. I remember standing outside my apartment door and looking across the bay to the San Francisco skyline, shining in the sun on a rare, fog-less morning. I woke up early, gave myself plenty of travel time, and arrived at the testing center 30 minutes early, as required on the confirmation letter. When the woman at the desk asked for my ID, I opened my wallet and found nothing. My ID was gone.
This was clearly impossible, since I had painstakingly checked and double-checked the night before to make sure I was 1000% prepared. Except, no matter how many times I closed and re-opened my wallet, the ID still wasn't there.
The test time was inching closer and I really needed to get signed in. I frantically checked my purse, pockets, shoes, and anything else that seemed reasonable at the time. No ID. I begged the woman at the front desk to accept my student ID and a credit card instead, but it was no use. I had no idea where my ID was, and had to admit defeat. I was not taking the GRE that day.
I walked out to the street on that beautiful, sunny, San Francisco day, and cried. I sat on a Montgomery Street bench and cried until I couldn't cry anymore. Then I called my brother, and cried some more. I was not going to grad school the next year. I had no idea what I was going to do with my life after graduation. I was terrified and filled with an aching dread.
Eventually, I composed myself and hopped back on BART across the bay to Berkeley. The moment I walked into my apartment is still vividly burned into my brain. I unlocked and opened my door, stepped across the threshold, and there was my ID, on the floor. It made no sense, because I wasn't rummaging around in my purse at all that morning, and I knew it was in my wallet the night before. How the...? What the...?
Perhaps it was Harvey, the Pooka. Or maybe it was my guardian angel, or the Fates. Someone or something did not want me taking that test in San Francisco that morning. And without that, who knows where I would be?
Certainly not here.
Tonight, I'm having a bit of a identity crisis stemming from the fact that somehow, without my knowledge or permission, it is 2017. That means it's been ten years since it was 2007. A couple of weeks ago, I actually wrote "07" as the date on something at work, giggled to myself at my silly mistake, and then realized I was TEN YEARS off. TEN. YEARS. Ten years have passed since 2007, and it feels like the blink of an eye.
2007, man. Every now and then, if we are lucky, we experience one of those years. You know the years I'm talking about? The ones that make an impact the size of the Chicxulub crater on your soul?
2007. Even seeing the numbers typed out makes my heart skip a beat. I wish I could describe the feeling billowing in my chest. It's a wistful pang of nostalgia, laughter, sadness, accomplishment, pride, and longing for more.
It was my year of adventure. My year of unbridled joy. My year of failure. The year of my first true self.
A few nights ago, I stumbled upon this quote in a meme, and it struck my soul: "You are always one decision away from a totally different life." Boom. It immediately had my head swirling with questions about momentous life decisions, and my thoughts kept circling back to 2007:
What if there was no job opening in Clarksville? What if I stayed in Berkeley? What if I didn't go to Orange County that one weekend? What if I did get the Teach for America job?
...What if I hadn't dropped my ID in my apartment that Saturday morning?And the swirling thoughts stopped, with a sinking in my chest. That was really what did it. Something as small as dropping my ID in my apartment literally changed my entire future.
You see, in the spring of 2007, I had a plan. And you should probably know that, at this point in my life, I had never failed at anything before. Things in my life just seemed to work out with the greatest of ease, and I chalked it up to my hard work and determination, but never really understood that sometimes, even with hard work and determination, you fail. Don't worry-my youthful naivete was shattered shortly thereafter.
I can't remember which incredible failure came first, the Teach for America rejection, or the ID incident. Because I had basically repressed the ID incident for almost 10 years of my life, I'm thinking that might have been the first, and, obviously, the hardest to cope with.
It was a given that I was going to Grad School after I graduated from Berkeley. My parents set that expectation for me at a young age, and I just knew it was in my future. Because I was a sensible person with grand plans for life that were always going to work out, I signed up to take the GRE, a prerequisite for applying to any Graduate Program that wasn't law or medicine. I studied for months and on the eve of the test, I was impeccably prepared. The night before the test, I made sure I had my confirmation letter and my ID in my purse; the two requirements for the testing center.
The test was held in downtown San Francisco on a particularly fateful and beautiful Saturday morning. I remember standing outside my apartment door and looking across the bay to the San Francisco skyline, shining in the sun on a rare, fog-less morning. I woke up early, gave myself plenty of travel time, and arrived at the testing center 30 minutes early, as required on the confirmation letter. When the woman at the desk asked for my ID, I opened my wallet and found nothing. My ID was gone.
This was clearly impossible, since I had painstakingly checked and double-checked the night before to make sure I was 1000% prepared. Except, no matter how many times I closed and re-opened my wallet, the ID still wasn't there.
The test time was inching closer and I really needed to get signed in. I frantically checked my purse, pockets, shoes, and anything else that seemed reasonable at the time. No ID. I begged the woman at the front desk to accept my student ID and a credit card instead, but it was no use. I had no idea where my ID was, and had to admit defeat. I was not taking the GRE that day.
I walked out to the street on that beautiful, sunny, San Francisco day, and cried. I sat on a Montgomery Street bench and cried until I couldn't cry anymore. Then I called my brother, and cried some more. I was not going to grad school the next year. I had no idea what I was going to do with my life after graduation. I was terrified and filled with an aching dread.
Eventually, I composed myself and hopped back on BART across the bay to Berkeley. The moment I walked into my apartment is still vividly burned into my brain. I unlocked and opened my door, stepped across the threshold, and there was my ID, on the floor. It made no sense, because I wasn't rummaging around in my purse at all that morning, and I knew it was in my wallet the night before. How the...? What the...?
Perhaps it was Harvey, the Pooka. Or maybe it was my guardian angel, or the Fates. Someone or something did not want me taking that test in San Francisco that morning. And without that, who knows where I would be?
Certainly not here.
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