It seemed as though I had finally settled into a new way of life in Madison when it came time to fly back to New York. If it were not for the promised meal of delicious Thanksgiving turkey, I really can't be sure I would have made my early morning flight. Not that I wasn't looking forward to going home, it's just that, well, I wasn't looking forward to going home. Sure, the prospect of seeing family and friends was appealing, but I knew the exciting charm of it all would quickly wear off. Regardless of my inner restraints, I did what I knew was best and got myself to the wonderful Madison airport. I'm not being sarcastic; it really is a nice airport.
After the grueling pain and strife that any contact with the airlines will inevitably cause, I had finished traveling and arrived home. Seeing family after long periods of being apart is always pleasing. The operative word in that sentence is, of course, "seeing," that brief moment during which I was reminded of what exactly my parents' faces look like.
Once I got past the sight of them, having to answer to my parents concerning my whereabouts and curfew became an unfortunate struggle that reminded me of the virtues of living sans parental units. Following a short stint with my mother, during which I explained how I stay out all night at school, and there is just nothing she can do about it, it was time to go to an old-fashioned hoorah, better known as a high school party. It may sound like great fun, but don't be fooled by the underage drinking and scantily clad high school girls on the cusp of applying to college. Thanksgiving weekend parties are lame, or at least they were for me. Call me a cynic, but the obnoxious small talk that is considered an obligation between old high school acquaintances is completely and utterly annoying. For those of you who aren't quite sure what I'm talking about, it goes something like this: "It's so good to see you! How are you? How's (awkward pause while you wait to be told where this particular person goes to college)?" Next, the question is reciprocated, and when all the generic answers have been painfully squeezed out of you, this little conversation of petty updates is repeated with the next victim.
All chitchat bashing aside, I finally ran into the people I considered my best friends in high school. I guess here is where things took a surprising turn for the worse. I'm well aware that I've only been a college student for about three months, and during this period it would be impossible for anybody to truly and significantly change who he is, but there seemed to be something strange and awkward about seeing old friends. Connections that used to be vibrant and strong seemed to be waning into nothingness. Despite the fact our conversation penetrated the barriers of small talk going into deeper reminiscing, there seemed to be nothing to talk about. It was then that I realized how much I had really changed my perception of where home was for me. Home was no longer in the cramped basement of a high school party, and no matter how much I wanted to momentarily revert to the way things were when I still lived with my parents, I was relieved in a sense to find that impossible to do.
It is obviously unsettling to reunite with friendly faces from the past and find yourself wondering how it is you ever came to be friends in the first place. It sounds corny, yet I cannot help but attribute my new outlook to college regarding what friendship really is. As I came to school a stranger and began to form new social circles, I quickly realized that the foundation on which we find our friends is what will define that friendship in the future. Perhaps the foundation of my high school friendships were based merely on convenience of location and the fact we all frowned upon Beirut being called beer pong; when the location is no longer convenient and nobody cares anymore what formal name you give to a drinking game, there isn't much left in common. Although it is sad to see myself go a separate way from people I thought I would be tight with my whole life, there is some solace to be found in my disillusionment with what used to be familiar. Because when I stepped off that plane in Madison after arriving back from Thanksgiving weekend, there was a sense of belonging that I hadn't felt since before the summer; it was a feeling of being home.
Max Schlusselberg ([email protected]) is a freshman majoring in journalism.
