Last week, I went to my high school reunion.
It was a blast seeing all the pals from the good old days of my youth. It was a casual affair, at the local Elks club, which used to be the post office, itself a throwback to a younger version of my hometown. Father time was kinder to some than others, but everyone there was in great spirits as we each bounced around the room, reacquainting with all the old mates. Where do you live? Do you have kids? What do you do? It was a lot of fun and surprisingly without a hint of one-upmanship to be seen. Everyone seemed genuinely happy to be back in the same post office together, nearly two teenage lifetimes since we'd said our goodbyes on graduation day.
Whoever said 'time flies' wasn't kidding.
We told stories from the high school glory days and laughed about all the stupid things we did when we were young and stupid. And we talked about our lives today. In the interest of time, most of the conversations seemed to skip the decades in between and cut right to the current chase. Of course, I never get tired of telling my story of what I do for a living. Short of my friend Jimmy who flies one of those F15's overhead every few days, I still think I have the coolest job around. And who doesn't like to talk about ice cream, right?
No, that happened a few months after I'd returned from the other side of the planet and was living with my parents. Yes, living with my parents. In my 30's. Just like my friend Franny from first grade. That's another moment I can remember like it was yesterday. Dad and I were sitting at the kitchen table. We were drinking Folger's coffee and reading the Boston Globe. He had sold his own ice cream shop just a few months before. I don't really even know where it came from, but the next words out of my mouth were the ones that would redirect the entire course of my life.
'So what do you think about me opening my own ice cream shop?'
Hang in there Franny, everything happens for a reason. Take it from a guy who knows.