Back from Charlottesvile, Sick of Canada
Another quick trip to Charlottesville. It’s interesting charting the frequency of visits to C-Ville with the years out of undergrad. Now on the cusp of 27, I have been out for over four years.
Two changes. First, practical: the South lawn project (at least) looks complete. Second, officially every current member of the WASH considers me so old that communicating has become nearly impossible. (Side-note: the Smith-Simpson plaque remains out of date).
Now back to age: 27—the countdown to 30 begins! The age where that great ‘to do list’ transmutes—through the alchemy of age—to evaporated dreams, gratefully discarded follies, or pernicious goals subjected to one’s future children.
But in the endless attempt to skip maturity, I’m taking up a 22 year-old’s invitation to drinks and dinner. This will be an interesting mix, especially our entire introduction at the Hirschhorn was me either BS-ing or desperately hoping my painfully dull conversation would end. Hilariously, she’s about 20 times more grounded than I. But I win the name game—unless Keith and Desiree are both stripper names?
Naturally I bet wrong when it comes to a) younger women and b) women living 100s of miles away from me.
-PMH
P.S. I love Canada, really I do. I just hate this US-Canada journal try-out. It’s a detail-intensive labor, making the inevitable rejection that much more aggravating.
P.P.S. So I made it on. Cheers!
