Another high school graduation weekend has come and gone. Seventeen and eighteen-year old students all over the nation have marched down the aisles, endured weeks of hearing Pomp and Circumstance being played over and over again, tried hard to write down something funny and memorable in all their friend’s yearbooks, told a few select teachers they would actually miss them, gathered in as much cold-hard-cash as they possibly could from all of their relatives, and spent at least one night absolutely determined to party-hearty until the sun came up.
No more will they be spending their noon hour in an over-crowded quad or a socially segregated school cafeteria where the cheerleaders, athletes, pseudo-intellectuals, and even the wannabe hoodlums all had their special little set-aside areas where they gathered to eat and talk over their common problems and experiences.
And maybe best of all, no longer will the hardcore unpopular — that unfortunate group of outcasts represented by the different, the shy and introspective, the truly smart, and the soon-to-be really successful — have to put up with a daily existence often defined by the cruel and insensitive.
For my money, high school graduation (and the four years leading up to it) is the most over-rated, and yet somehow mostly fondly remembered, youthful rite-of-passage of them all.
“My senior year in in high school was the best year of my life,” a friend of a friend recently told me with a nostalgic sigh.
“Really?” I asked, kind of surprised that such a seemingly rational person’s life had apparently peeked at seventeen.
“How come?” I asked.
“Well, for starters, I fell in love for the very first time, and oh, he was soooo dreamy.”
“Now why do people do that?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“You know, use words that haven’t crossed their lips in 40 years when they start talking about their high school days. I mean, when is the last time you actually used the world “dreamy” to describe anyone?”
“Well, he was dreamy! And we had sooooo much fun together. Didn’t you fall in love when you were in high school?”
“I’m afraid so, but I don’t remember it being all that much fun, although it probably would have been a lot more enjoyable if her ex-boyfriend wasn’t always trying to kill me.”
“Oh, you were in a triangle?”
“No, it was more like being in a bad Alfred Hitchcock movie where you’re never quite sure if someone is going to jump into your shower with a knife.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“It’s a guy-thing,” I assured her, seeing no need to go into the fact that for most you men, high school is about playing sports, trying to act cool, and avoid being killed by either your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend or somebody else who can’t stand you for no discernable reason.
“I hate it when you men do that,” she said.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Start to talk about something, especially one of those so-called guy-things, and then just stop. Why do men do that?”
“I don’t do that.”
“You just did!”
“Well, all I was trying to say is that I think the high school experience is a little different for girls and guys.”
“How so?” she asked.
“Well. most of the girls I knew in high school were into things like getting good grades, meeting the right guy, going to the prom, getting along with their teachers, having slumber parties, cheering the team on to victory, yelling loud at spirit rallies, and smiling and saying `hi’ to everyone they passed in the hall.”
“So, what were the guys into?” she asked.
“Surviving.”
“But you must have a few good memories from your high school days?”
“Of course, I do.” I said.
“Tell me the best one.”
“Well,” I finally said after giving it some serious thought, “I think 25-cents a gallon gas certainly has to rank right up there at the top.
“The price of gas is one of your favorite high school memories?” she asked in amazement.
“Absolutely! for instance, my best friend was really good at begging his dad for any extra change he might have in his pocket, and if his father was in a good mood and flipped us just a quarter, that would be enough gas for the two of us to drag K Street in downtown Sacramento all weekend long in my 1953 Chevy.”
“You once drove a 53′ Chevy?”
“Yep.” I said proudly. “It was ocean blue, and it had those great-looking baby-moon rims. It used a couple of quarts of oil a week, but it sure looked cool.”
“So, you were a K-Street cruiser?” she asked with a smile.
“That’s right.”
“So, tell me the truth, did you actually ever pick up any girls doing that?”