A week from today I will be heading home. Chicago, I respond when people ask, as no one knows where Glen Ellyn, Illinois is unless you're from that part of the Midwest, attended the uber-conservative Wheaton College (one town over), or are obsessed with the movie Lucas. (I'd like to note that my high school is on Wikipedia and I am not a notable alumni. Le sigh.)
We're heading back as the SlackParents are throwing us a wedding reception (the benefit of a small wedding: more afterparties!) and the self-interrogation has begun. Did I need to polish off that pint of Americone Dream I bought for Mr. Boy? Why didn't I drag my ass out to spin last night? How can I lose fifteen pounds in the next seven days? My arms could be firmer, my thighs could be smaller, my skin could be clearer.
What is it about revisiting the scene of your childhood crimes that inspires such introspection?
It's not like anyone will be less happy for us because I'm not a size six. It's not like I won't be let in the door because there's a zit on my chin. It's not like I don't know this, but there's some part of my brain let loose in a self-deprecating playground every time I go home. Maybe it's because lurking behind every corner is the ghost of the person I used to be, ready to pounce at any moment.
Of course, the moment I walk in the door, all will be forgotten. We'll eat too much and swear too much and drink too much and sleep too little. Embarrassing stories will be told and re-told. I'll point out to Will where I went to high school and where we used to sneak out for late night coffee and where you to find the best burgers in town.
But until then...
