Time, Slipping Through Our Fingers

On Saturday night I found myself driving past my freshmen dorm. I asked a friend to grab dinner with me at a restaurant that I used to frequent during my college days. I quickly remembered a shortcut to get there as I got off the exit from the highway. And, then, there it was to my left. Good old Easton Hall.

“Yooooo, Easton!” I shouted to the empty air in my car and no one in particular.

Adjacent to Easton Hall is Elkton Hall where I lived my sophomore year of college. It’s hard to imagine that two years of my life exist in that cluster of the world. It’s hard to imagine that now in my very isolated and comfortable 1-bedroom existence, I survived a roommate, communal bathrooms, vomit in hallways and drunken yells of postpubescent women.

It’s not difficult to forget your college dorm once you’ve uprooted your life and taken residence in other places. Hell, it wasn’t difficult to forget those dorms during my junior and senior years when I moved across campus to the coveted apartments. But, driving by them on Saturday sparked a new sense of nostalgia.

It’s not that I ever miss college in some unshakeable way. I joked with one of my friends a few months ago that I was always built more so for adulthood than anything else. Even though adulthood has its ways of absolutely sucking, but that’s a story for another day. Nevertheless, college didn’t come naturally to me the way it did to some of my peers. At least not in the traditional party-most-of-the-time sense. I would observe people almost with a sense of envy, wondering what the hell was wrong with me as to why I didn’t want to go out nearly every night of the week. I was old enough to know I didn’t want to do certain things but not yet old enough to be comfortable with my introvert ways.

No, I don’t necessarily miss college. But, I do miss the ease of those days. It’s hard to believe it was seven years ago when I hauled Target storage bins, my entire wardrobe and my innocence up the steps of Easton Hall. Only bits and pieces from everything on that list would make it out at the end of the year. As I reminsced and transformed into a ball of nostalgia on Saturday night, I thought that soon enough, seven more years will go by. And then I’ll probably look back on my days as a 24-year-old blogging her life away and think “shit, I miss the ease of those days, too.”

Time is strange. It only exists in memories. The days pass and there is hardly ever much to distinguish one day from the next. And then you look back and years just slipped straight through your fingers.

Damn. I sound like I’m fucking 70 years old.

I don’t really know what my point is today. Usually I have some semi-philosophical close to my posts, but today I’m just nostalgic. Today I’m just hoping that I make the most of the days I’m given. I wonder that often. I wonder if I’m capitalizing on that one resource we’ve all been given but some of us seem to use so much better than others. People always say we are young and we have time. But, I don’t want to be one of those people who uses youth as as crutch or as an excuse to waste away or wait.

And, because I don’t have my standard semi-philosophical or sarcastic closing, I wanted to pull a quote that kind of, sort of sums up whatever the hell I’m trying to say.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they’ve faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you’ll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can’t grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine. Mary Schmich “Wear Sunscreen”



One Reply to “Time, Slipping Through Our Fingers”

  1. I have these moments quite a bit. All it takes is one single reminder to send my thoughts on this nostalgic rampage. Maybe it’s because I didn’t finish and wish I just went straight through without giving up at any point. Maybe then I wouldn’t long for those days as often.

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