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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

I haven't really been myself lately for reasons I don't quite understand. Nobody died. Nobody even came close to dying (although I did recently learn that one of my friends got stabbed a couple of years before we met. I know this is so very wrong, but when he told me, all I could do was laugh and ask him if he was in a Jets and Sharks-style gang dance war. Who knew that in real life, getting stabbed repeatedly is nothing like West Side Story).

I'm not sure what exactly is going on, but it feels like the existential equivalent of realizing that all of your clothes are from 1998 and none of them are or will ever be in style again. This is the only real comparison I can make because two weeks ago I had that realization too and I can tell you from experience that it will leave you thinking "when did I get so out of touch with reality? Also, when did 2006 get to be so far away from 1998?"

In my three-day transition from being freakishly short yet awkwardly charming to becoming Lamey McLamerton the III, Esquire, I have noticed that while I've become less and less like me, my pals have become more and more like themselves, like extra-awesome versions of the people I fell in love with some time ago. (A prime example of this is this past Friday when a mojito-filled ladies night revealed not only the bra size of everyone in attendance, but also this picture of my boyfriend [featured right] from a time long, long ago when he had hair on more places than just his back):

On Monday, Chris and I high-tailed out to the track where he won about $75 and we both reconnected with a friend who we haven't seen in years. After the semi-awkward exchange of basic catch-up information (What have you been up to? How was grad school? How's your girlfriend? Are you excited to be living back east?), our friend regaled us with stories of eating free steamed sweet corn in Dekalb and touring creameries in Wisconsin and learning words for dirty sexual maneuvers while camping with his boss.

By the time the horses had run, the boyfriend was rich, and we had stuffed our faces at a side-o- the-road Mexican restaurant (which was located in what was clearly someone's house), Chris and I drove home, giggling and doing awful impersonations of Shakira (looks like an angel, sounds like a muppet) the whole way there. Coming home to our dog, ice cream, and HBO on Demand courtesy of Chris' parents, I smiled to myself and felt delightfully foolish the rest of the night.


At 7:56 PM, Blogger Leahtard said...

Dude, your boyfriend totally looks like The Penguin in this picture.

At 11:20 PM, Blogger Valeree Lynn said...

There should more mojito filled ladies' nights. I love you, Chris Couch. I really, truly love you.

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