So, I haven’t told you about my weekend yet, huh? About how I played beer pong and listened to Lil’ Wayne and OD’ed on sour watermelon candy in the backseat of Dave’s parents’ Accord?
If that’s not reverting, I don’t know what is.
Yeah, I still have a little anxiety about That Awful Birthday. But I actually had a lot of fun playing college senior/honorary member of Dave’s family for the weekend.
There was some car ride interrogation: “Rachel, if David got a residency in New York, how easily could you transfer to [Big, Prestigious Paper my media company owns]?” aka “Don’t even think about taking our son somewhere that would prohibit him for coming home for Sunday night dinner.”
There were no less than three trips to Wegman’s, Dave’s family’s grocery store/restaurant/entertainment venue of choice.
There was a hilarious episode involving Dave’s freshman sister and her freshman friend, who insisted she could get them into a bar with just their Cornell IDs, simply by dropping the name ‘Arturo’ at the door. Um, yeah. FAIL.
There was some quality time with Christie Lee. There was a lot of really gross, gray slushy snow. There was a lot of Natty Light.
You know what there wasn’t?
Nostalgia. Urges to send drunken text message to cell phone numbers I should have forgotten by now. Ghosts of ex-boyfriends past.
It surprised me, actually. I spent a fair amount of time up at Cornell during my freshman year of college, visiting That Kid. And I completely expected to be bombarded by the memories – that frat house where I lost my fleece and engaged in questionable behavior in order to score Mardis Gras beads, the quad where we (probably mistakenly) decided to give the relationship another go after a month-long “break” (in name only.) But the memories, the nostalgia, the ache for the days before I gained the Freshman 15 25 – they never came. I felt nothing the whole weekend – save gratitude that I didn’t have to spend four years in Ithaca. (It’s called a safety school for a reason, people.)*
It was slightly disorienting, to be honest. I was so used to being so affected by him, even long after we ended the relationship (which again, took a lot longer in practice than in name.) Years after my feelings for him had disappeared, the littlest things – a random Facebook message, a Journey song blasting at a bar – continued to throw me for a loop. I’m the queen of overanalysis, of rumination, of Not Letting Things Go. So I kind of thought it would just always be that way. I mean, I really was over him, I was just kind of…haunted.
Who knew all it would take to make the ghosts go away was a trip to upstate New York?
*Harsh, I know. Get over it.