Bright Young Things

I didn't realize, fully, how unrelaxed being in medical school made me feel until I started to shake some of that feeling out. It's been slow going, and I realize it in spurts. A few Saturdays ago, Joey and I floated in and out of stores in a plaza--first midday snacks with Rob and Adam at our favorite taco place, then the movie theatre. We had an hour between the movie and meeting up for dinner with Joe, Jacob and Joe's parents, so we floated across the street to a bar. There was an outdoor deck, a live band, Sweetwater 420 on draft. I had a beer, leaned back--there was sunshine on my face and I realized that this had never happened in medical school. There was never a Saturday when I was completely relaxed--I always felt guilty for not studying or nervous about an upcoming test. I could never really breathe--even on winter and spring breaks, even last summer with our director wanted me to start studying for second year. My time was never really, not ever completely, mine.

Last night, Anna and I hosted a cookout at her place. We made a ton of food--she hand-formed the burgers and made macaroni and cheese, I made hamburger buns, potato salad and bourbon peach handpies. There were chips and brownies. We had Firefly and homemade lemonade; Jacob and Joe brought two coolers full of beer. By the end of the evening, we all had a serious buzz--we ignored the signs, went swimming far past dusk and took our beer bottles poolside. One by one, we were almost all in the pool, even people who had initially decided not to swim, even people who had not brought swim trunks. Jacob was swimming in his shorts; Charlie was swimming in my brother's shorts. The water was warm and the air was cool. My head was a little fuzzy and everything was delightful.

Joe got in and he and Charlie threw me around, dragged me by my wrists and flipped me upside down. Both were especially good at catching me off-guard: one second of not paying attention, and suddenly there were hands under my arms and I was flying in the air. I would laugh, catch my breath, and go flying again.

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"You lost my hair tie," I said to Joe.

A few minutes later, "I found it," he said. "Would you like me to get it for you?"

"No," I said, "I have plenty."

"Yeah, and half of them are at my house."

"No, I bought a new pack of them."

"And half of them are at my house."

This is my post-crazy intimacy--somewhere, there are pieces of me falling all about Joe's house.

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Today, I sit at my kitchen table with Charlie. The team he just finished working with has somehow convinced him to bring them cupcakes, and he has enlisted my help. It's my favorite kind of baking--the kind where I get to mix the batter and use my fancy decorating tips to pipe the icing, but I don't have to pay for the ingredients and there is someone to keep me company.

As I pipe the frosting on, I ask, "When do you think a person is too old to be a 'bright young thing?'"

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"You know--this idea that people are young and have some brilliant life. It has nothing to do with intelligence--just the idea of young carefree people, full of creativity and life. How old do you think is too old? 25? 30?"

"25," he says. "That's what I think."

I sigh. "That's what I think too." I pause. "But I really wanted you to say 30."

When I ask Joey the same question, yelling it across the room, Charlie yells after me, "Joey! Just say 30!"

Then we make purple icing and Charlie dips the cupcakes in sprinkles while I wash the dishes. We pack up his cupcakes and say goodnight.

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I won't talk about it much out loud, but the transition to grad school has been a bit astonishing. It's lovely to have time to myself, and it's lovely to be able to sit back and breath, to truly ease into relaxation--a change has proved much better than a rest. But I miss my friends who've gone to third year. I miss wiling away time with them, talking for an hour about nothing, just because. Our lives--which for two years were functionally identical--have swiftly diverged. They take call. They have patients. They are exhausted and overwhelmed, and rightly so. I do not at all feel lonely--but I do miss their sweet, funny, loving faces.

We have these ideas--from Hollywood or its stars, or from elsewhere [but I don't know where]--of twenty-somethings and the lives they lead. In movies, they are free-wheeling and hard-drinking. They sip cocktails or dispose of margaritas in a swift fashion. They are backpacking in Europe or just getting their feet wet in a new job. They live charmed lovely lives that don't really resemble mine, even if you are squinting.

I wonder, then sometimes, if I traded something intangible for this life. I know that the something intangible isn't real--it's something fed to us by movies or the media. It's something else adding to the noise that our lives aren't good enough. But sometimes, I can be convinced into thinking it's true, that I'm missing out on some shiny set of life experiences that I'll never get, that will be too late to grab. That are already too late to grab.

But then, again, there are always nights like last night. Sipping a mix of Firefly and lemonade that I appropriated from Jacob, I am pulled back into the warm water and sent flying in the air. The night is bright, and I am young, still. And I'm not really missing out on anything. I'm really not.