To say I grew up in a superstitious home might be a bit of an overstatement. No, my mother didn't pray before a shrine to the Virgin Mary, construct altars to deceased relatives, bless new household items with holy water, or adhere to any number of customs that are associated with Catholics. She did, however, disapprove of taking the Lord's name in vain and found rosary beads to be suitable presents, and when we were trying to sell our house, she buried a statue of St. Joseph in the yard. Upside down and facing the street, of course.
Even so, religion was only of marginal importance in my family. The few traditions I still adhere to spring more from a generic sense of superstition than any religious institutions. That's why, to this day, if someone near me states something foolish like, "I've never been pulled over on this street," or "This bar always accepts fake ID's," or basically, any statement that includes a superlative and implies assertions that can only be attributed to chance, should have me looking around for wood to knock on. No pun intended.
Even though I was raised to believe in the inherent danger that accompanied these declarations, like many college students, I could not resist playing Never Have I Ever. Though this weekend did not include this customary drinking game, it did seem to exemplify its themes. For those of you unfamiliar with this activity, allow me to briefly explain. Though several variations exist, the gist is that you go around the circle proclaiming things you have never done, and the people who have are "punished" by having to take a drink.
Playing this game initially taught me to neither underestimate the private lives of others, nor to overestimate my own. Over the last four years, it has taught me that those things we once inwardly prided ourselves on never engaging in seem to become fewer and fewer with age.
It was a weekend like many others, starring the same people and the equivalent places and events. Work and play were divided only by day and night, sobriety and inebriation. But somewhere, perhaps around the midpoint of the weekend, it felt as if my universe had shifted.
When I celebrate my Sabbath on Thursday evenings, I am never one to end the worship early, but last week saw me crawling home long before the sun came up. An interminable evening at work followed by the obvious isolation of being precluded from a former best friend's birthday celebration should have spelled disaster for Friday evening, but newly minted friends and familiar faces at my favorite bar lifted my spirits. But like Cinderella's midnight-induced panic, the end of the evening brought no happy resolutions for this fairy's tale.
The siren's call or death knell of graduation, though inaudible to my ears, made its innate presence felt. Those who you never thought could be potential hookups presented themselves as possible bon voyage flings, and like many times before, new fires burned out before they had the chance to be physically or emotionally extinguished.
Saturday gathered a cross-section of friends and family for a birthday. The party's location in Arlington seemed an appropriate setting because it was more than the building's terrace that offered a view of the District's sights.
Inside the party as well, I could see the friends I'd kept, a few people I'd let romantically slip away, and a generous handful of possibilities I never knew existed. Wasn't this how life in college always was? Some people will always remain, whether good or bad, and there will also always be new people to discover.
When I was 13, I never thought I'd be old enough to drive. When I was 16, I thought I'd never abuse alcohol or drugs. When I was 18, I never thought I'd be old enough to drink legally, and as of last week I didn't really think that it would ever come time to graduate. If this weekend taught me anything it's to stop assuming time will ever stand still, or new experiences will never come my way.
After all, I never thought I'd wake up fully clothed between two relative strangers on Easter morning. I can't be sure, but I think somewhere my mother is praying for my soul.
