Twenty-One

 

No, not that kind of 21 (Paul O'Neill, of course)

So there was a thing on the social interwebs recently about shoeing a picture of yourself at the age of 21.

"Everyone tap in. Let's see you at 21."

Stubborn fool that I am, I tend to avoid such trends and just enjoy them or watch them from afar.

And yet...

I stepped up into the attic last night to see what the photo albums I own might produce.

Ah, yes, that would send us back to turning 21 in Nov 1989.

It took a bit of an effort but I found a picture of a person who, in theory, looks like me.

Yes, that is a Bart Simpson t-shirt that I bought at the Stormville Flea Market. Such was the trend at that time.

And yes, I know how I look. Duly noted. Time and various challenges do things to one's appearance.

Yes, I had hair. It was what some called "wind tunnel tested." It was sort of a knockoff on Huey Lewis, realizing my hair was far too fine to pull such a look off. But hair dryers and hair spray made this thing work for a few years before it came to an end.

I'm standing on the deck of my former in-law's pool in Yorktown Heights, NY and, according to what I could find, it's July 1990.

At that time, I still dabbled in softball, had a lawn to mow at my mother's, and was a fairly tame and -- I'll say it -- boring dude. Somehow I thought that was what I was supposed to be. I thought being someone who loved music, sports, laughter, walking, reading, and travel was a decent guy to be with.

To add to this I drove a light brown Chevrolet Cavalier, which my father helped me pick out because he thought it was a good commuter car that would serve me well. He was right.

I didn't party much. I loved being with my family and friends and that's not too far off from who I am still.

This is under a year-and-a-half after my father had passed and, while I don't look sad necessarily, I sort of feel for the sorry soul that I'm looking at.

I worked for Kraft General Foods at this time, driving to and from White Plains every day and convincing myself that I was just fine in corporate America, while I was probably anything but.

In truth, I worked in finance and had graduated from Connecticut School of Broadcasting earlier that year. Most weekends, I returned to school to practice my trade by making audition cassettes to send to potential employers. Indeed, I'd get my first job -- at Majic 105 -- that September.

It was a long way from there to sports, WGCH, and Robcasting, LocalLive, etc. I had no clue that I'd ever wind up in Greenwich.

I worked among a bunch of 20-somethings who all had degrees had gone away to college and were aiming differently than I was. I was mostly looked down on as I realize now. That's not to say I didn't have friends -- some even to this day -- but there were cliques that I just didn't fit in. 

I was sort of laughed at and mocked.

I was too naive to understand that, I guess.

I suppose I see a lot of that in the picture above.

It wasn't a bad life. I was just sort of lost but that's with hindsight being 20/20.

At the time, I thought I generally had my head on straight and my stuff sort of together.

But the kid from Mahopac standing in Yorktown Heights that day was still going to Yankees games, listening to Huey Lewis, and whatever else I was doing.

Oh, and I'd be back in college later that year if I recall correctly. I stopped going to Westchester Community College after Dad passed. Mentally and emotionally, I needed to stop. A bad accounting class in the spring of 1989 infuriated me. 

Connecticut School of Broadcasting rebuilt my confidence and made me think that I should start back up and carry on. Working full-time and going to school at night, I wouldn't finish my bachelor's degree for another seven years.

So I look at this picture and see how I wish I was still that thin, sure. I look at the picture and wish I could tell myself that the hurt of my father's passing will never end but that I'll be OK. 

I wish I could tell him a few things about the relationship I was in and be prepared. On the other hand, staying the course will produce a wonderful son who turns out better than anyone could wish.

I see a lot of promise in that guy on a sunny day in 1990. Some of it wasn't achieved and, yet, some of it went beyond.

I see me -- warts and all.

I don't necessarily look back with regret. That's not really my style. Yes, what happened with the person who took that picture was abhorrent but it's now all passed and the stories linger. I'm a better person -- and a survivor -- as a result.

Perhaps I wish I could go back and tell myself that writing will be a big part of things one day but nah. There would be a lot of things to discuss and prepare for. But like Back to the Future, why find out our destiny, even if Doc did actually read the letter? 

Jeez. This is getting heavy.

Sean and I went to the grocery store earlier today and I told him about this before showing him the picture.

Then it dawned on me.

"I should just post a picture of you," I said.

We both laughed.

He's me in so many ways.

At 21.