Persistence of Memory

Time has always been a sort of bendy-stretchy thing for me. I mean, I can tell you how old I am...and I'm vaguely aware of what that means (something about breathing down the neck of "the big 4-0" or something).

But for the most part, my sense of self is very relative. If I'm having happy hour with my friends from the office, I might tell you (between chugs of Irish car bombs) that I feel fun enough to be 25. If I'm briefing the two ranking captains in the Command, I might tell you I feel confident enough to be 40.

Clearly, I fail at being self-referential...however, I rock at being well-rounded!

Despite the anachronistic peptalks, every now and then I get a little one-two punch of "what it means to be my age." Like this week, I got a card in the mail prepping me and my college graduating class for our 15-year reunion next fall. I'm presuming the ultra-advanced notice is so that we can all recover from the coronary attack that announcement inspires. What? Fifteen years?? From college???

And, if that weren't bad enough? I was flipping through the alumni publication tonight (you know, the one with the little updates on where everyone is and what they're doing and how many children they've had...a glossy form of acceptable voyeurism.) I'm lucky because I worked in the Admissions office for the first 3 years after graduation, so I can gawk a little farther forward than most. I generally find names I recognize for a solid 10-12 year span...which is pretty nifty.

Anyway, so I'm flipping through this thing and I ran across a name I recognized in the 2006 class. How could that be (my range is pretty much 1989 - 2000ish)? Turns out the little sister of one of my favorite students from my first class of recruitees managed to grow up (she was probably...gosh...12 when I met her??), go to her big brother's alma mater, graduate, AND get married.

Oh...ish. I suddenly know exactly how Dali's clocks feel...