There have been times where I’ve seriously doubted my memory. Why I can’t remember the names of every single terrorist I’ve read about, for instance, or why I can never remember all three names of Columbus’s ships (I wikipedia-ed it just now). I’ve read dates and times and names and I wish to God that I could remember it all like this guy.
To digress a bit, I got to spend some time with some old friends this weekend. These were some of my closest friends for two years, a boyfriend and his gaggle of lost boys. I loved these boys, I loved them like brothers (except for Joeybones, of course. I didn’t spend THAT much time in the south.) And admittedly I’d been nervous to see them again; the last time I’d seen Tommyboy and Johnnycake was a bit before I started college (or maybe a bit after? Again, with the memory). And Joeybones, my first love, I’d seen once or twice since our horrible breakup. And it was horrible, so much so that I spent the next two times we’d seen each other trying to be back together (Did I end that one? I’m fairly sure I did).
The point is, I’d been fretting for the past week about seeing them again. After all, I’ve changed quite a bit. I don’t have my old black hair, and I’ve lost the studded belt. It’s true, I had them. Along with a heaping pile of anger and teenage angst. I lost them somewhere in the transitional college years, and this was the first time that I’ve been nervous about the change. Would they think I’ve turned into a haughty bitch? I didn’t wear my pearls.
And of course I overreacted. Seeing them felt exactly as it should; the matured version of what we used to be. Actually, the only mature parts of it were that we’re all now legal to drink and were at Jonnycake’s apartment. We’ve all come a long way from where we used to be, but it felt good to relapse into old memories. We’re able to joke about the time we had “car trouble”, and every time someone threw out an old memory, we’d laugh and add to it.
With the exception of one memory. Joey and I, having dated for a few years and having been fairly serious (as serious as first loves go, sans pregnancy and gunshot wedding) found ourselves bickering over one specific memory regarding the more intimate side of our relationship. It started with me mentioning something that we’d done, and him swearing it had never happened. This lasted the rest of the night, with his drunken butt not able to remember it (it happened dear).
And then I took it to the next level, and asked if he remembered our first time. Now I’m not sure if this is a gender thing or not, but every girl I’ve met can remember her first time down to the exact details. Not to get too personal (Who am I kidding? I’m already there), but I can remember the movie we were watching beforehand. The boy? Remembers nothing. Not the day, not what it was like, not what he said after. That became my weapon for the rest of the night- if you can’t remember one of the most important nights of your life, how can you remember one not-so-important nights?
The moral of this long-winded and overtly intimate piece? I’m right, he’s wrong. No, that’s not it. The moral of the story is how absolutely great it feels to reconnect with old friends, even if it is just to watch movies, eat pizza, listen to music, and drink.