Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner

by Lancaster, Jen

  Even so, although Fletch and I generally hit the bars together once we met, there were instances when I’d head out with my girlfriends and I’d turn into what Fletch described as “a handful.”

  Fletch still gives me the business about the time his bar manager friend called him to come fetch my friend Sloane and me from the parking lot. Apparently after Sloane and I stole a bunch of steak knives, we attempted to use them like crampons to scale the building. Due to a flaw in the steak knives’ design and an unyielding brick wall (or possibly the three pitchers of Molson we imbibed), we abandoned our task.

  Plan B involved going into hyperstealth mode, digging foxholes in the snowbanks outside the bar, obscuring ourselves by draping white cloth napkins over our heads in order to be completely camouflaged while we shouted obscenities at the snotty patrons who’d been shooting us dirty looks inside when they walked to their cars. [Listen, we can’t not sing along to “Love Is a Battlefield.” It’s, like, against the law or something.]

  Once Fletch arrived and patiently explained that this was, in fact, not how Superman combated forces of evil, we grudgingly abandoned our Fortress of Solitude. Sloane caught a ride [Read: was wrestled into a car.] with other friends, but I refused to go home until I had a burrito. In an attempt to placate me—or out of concern that I might still be packing steak knife heat—we went to La Bamba, home of the Burrito as Big as Your Head. [And still one of my most favorite foods ever.]

  Anyone who attended a Midwestern Big Ten school knows the magic of a La Bamba burrito. This is the only restaurant I’ve ever seen with a dinner rush that hits between two and four a.m. I fondly recall standing with all the other drunken students in lines that looped out the door and down the street, all of us waiting for the enchanted elixir.

  There’s nothing particularly special about any of the burrito’s ingredients, outside of them being fresh, crispy, or nicely seasoned. Yet somehow the act of stuffing them all into a clammy white flour tortilla (that is literally larger than the circumference of my head) turns this innocuous concoction of lettuce, rice, and meat into a silver bullet of sorts, capable of stopping a speeding hangover, no matter how many Harry’s World Famous Long Island Iced Teas I tossed down my gullet.

  The La Bamba burrito was and is a genuine booze sponge and is thus the Golden Ticket to not barfing/getting the spins. Everyone I knew used to order the Super as an insurance policy. We’d eat half the night before and we’d have the second half in the morning. [Sort of like a refried bean–based Day After pill.]

  Anyway, that particular night, after securing my precious, delicious cargo, I slipped on the ice next to Fletch’s truck. I slid directly beneath the passenger side, where I laughed myself into an asthma attack because I was so pleased at having the foresight to save my Super-steak with extra queso and sour cream, despite ripping my pants and banging my head.

  I stayed under the truck eating my burrito, while Fletch craned his neck all over the place trying to figure out where I might have gone. When he finally found me under the truck, he assumed I was dead, not happily cramming my cheeks with carne asada.

  Handful.

  I ended the evening by blowing my nose on his tie because “it looked all soft and flannel-y.”

  FYI, this is why it took me eleven years to graduate. [And, likely, eight years before he agreed to get married.]

  I digest Fletch’s news for a moment. “I… guess that makes sense. But it seems like they should be giving this award to an astronaut or something, not me.”

  Fletch rolls his eyes. “Purdue has surprisingly few astronauts in the Liberal Arts department.”

  I reply, “This lack of critical thinking skills is exactly what leads me to believe I don’t deserve any kind of award.” Fletch leaves the kitchen and begins to head back towards his office while I’m left to review supporting documentation for my major award. “Hey, honey—wait. The information packet says something about a ceremony and a dinner and stuff. I don’t have to go, do I?”

  Fletch shakes his head. “Of course not. If you don’t mind disappointing Joanna, you’re welcome to stay home.”

  Oh! Hoisted on my own petard!

  “Wow. You rarely do guilt, but when you do, it’s a doozy.” Seriously, ouch. I’m very protective of Joanna and the idea of upsetting her intentionally is far too much to bear. “Looks like we’re going to the award ceremony.”

  “Cheer up!” he replies. “It’ll be fun. You eat some rubber chicken, you get your picture taken, and you give a little speech. How hard can it be?”

  I guess we’ll find out.

  Four months before the ceremony, I think: I should get a head start on that speech.

  Three months before the ceremony: Maybe I should jot a few thoughts down before it’s April and I’m slammed with pre-book-launch publicity in May.

  Two months before the ceremony: Ooh! Snow! I’m not going to write a speech today. Imma build a fortress!

  One month before the ceremony: I should think about that speech.

  One week before the ceremony: I should work on that speech, but my desk is so messy and I have all these dog pictures to post…

  One day before the ceremony: Well, shit.

  Okay, I’m writing this.

  I can do this.

  I mean, I write for a living, yes?

  I click open a Word document and I adjust all my settings. I’m unable to think about writing until I have the font set to Bookman Old Style, 12 point, double-spaced. I’m actually a bit of a lunatic about this and I won’t even read any document online until I convert it to this format.

  Ready, okay.

  I have to write the keynote address right now. There’s no more I’ll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow is too late.

  As there are three other recipients, this speech can’t be all about me. Although the truth is I’m secretly disappointed at being one of the Outstanding Alumni and not THE Outstanding alumnus, [If I’m getting an award I don’t deserve, then I should be the only one who gets it.] yet this takes some of the pressure off me.

  Let me just Google these other recipients’ names and…

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  The more I dig into my peers’ backgrounds, the sicker I feel. If my Google-fu is strong (and it is), it would appear that the first gentleman also getting recognized has devoted his life to the social justice surrounding capital punishment. He’s a Sociology Professor and Department Chair at a huge university.

  Yes, sure, I know all about that. I can talk at length about the Grisham novel I just read on that very subject.

  Argh.

  The second guy I research is… oh, goddamn it, he’s an Ambassador. So, unlike me, he was actually able to find a job in our shared major of Political Science. That’s just awesome and I don’t feel like a dick at all. And certainly I’m not intimidated or anything. I’m just going to be all, “Hey, Ambassador, my claim to fame is swearing at Alec Baldwin at a charity event. Bet THAT never happened to you while you were out there ambassador-ing.”

  Jesus Christ, this night is going to be a disaster. I don’t belong with these people. I’m not worthy. Yeah, I’ve written some books that people enjoy but they’re not, like, literature or anything.

  I freak out for a little while longer until my pragmatic side takes over.

  You know what?

  I’m psyching myself out and if I don’t finish this speech, I won’t have time to go tanning or get my nails done. Then I’ll be at the ceremony feeling inadequate AND unkempt.

  At least I can be kempt. I may be a dumbass, but I’m a well-groomed dumbass and that’s half the battle.

  Fine, moving on. I search for the last recipient and I see she’s a writer, too. Okay, cool. I can get down with that. I certainly identify with another writer, yes?

  Oh, wait. Says here she’s a Pulitzer Prize winner and the Washington Bureau Chief for The New York Times.

  Terrific. I’ll be sure to inquire if she’s read my recent think piece on Card S
harks.

  I am so screwed.

  “That you?” Fletch calls from the bedroom.

  “I’m home,” I say, as I walk down the hallway to the master. I have a seat while he packs. When it comes to travel, I’m kind of a Viking and I had my stuff together for this event days ago. Wonder if the Ambassador can head out for a three-week book tour with only carry-on luggage? [I feel it’s best to find opportunities over which I can gloat, few and far between as they are.]

  “How was your afternoon?” he asks as he shoves six pair of socks and no underwear into his overnight bag. Fletch is not a Packing Viking, bless his heart.

  “Not bad,” I reply. “I had a manicure [OPI’s Conquistadorable seemed to be the most responsible-looking color.] and went to Palm Beach Tan. By the way, when I was doing my speech research, I saw that a bunch of NASA guys are receiving the same award tomorrow from the Engineering school. Wonder if any of the astronauts are getting ready for their big day with a spray tan?”

  “Doubtful,” he says, tossing in sneakers and some workout shorts.

  “Um, are you going to the Co-Rec for a pickup game of squash or are you coming to a banquet with me? If it’s the latter, why don’t I help you pack?” I suggest.

  Not long after this, we’ve got everything Fletch could need for the twenty-four hours we’ll be gone. From pajamas to going-out shoes, I’ve helped Fletch neatly prepare for any eventuality on the road. However, he argues when I try to get him to put his shirt and suit in the suitcase.

  “They’ll get wrinkled,” he complains. “I’ll grab them tomorrow.”

  “No,” I reply. “You’ll put them in the car right now; otherwise you’ll forget, if the last three weddings you attended in gym shoes are any indication. I am not about to receive my major award with you in a Donkey Punch T-shirt.”

  And with that, we’re ready to go.

  Joanna and her husband, Michael, were planning on driving down with us, but they have a schedule conflict tomorrow morning and need to leave at the crack of dawn, so it’s just us in the car. Fletch breaks his cardinal rule of no eating because I was so busy not writing my speech that I also didn’t go to the grocery store and there’s no food in the house. We stop at Arby’s and I do my best not to drip Horsey Sauce on upholstery. [Oh, forbidden potato cakes, you’re the sweetest potato cakes of them all!]

  When we arrive at Purdue, I’m shocked at how much it’s changed. I guess I didn’t expect it to be exactly the same as when I left, but… that’s a lie.

  I totally did.

  I wanted to see the Purdue of 1985 when Joanna and I used to stumble home to our teeny room in Earhart Hall after way too much trash can punch, sweaty and happily exhausted from dancing to Modern English in Keds.

  I hoped that somehow, even though it was April, I’d see kids in barn jackets using ironing boards and cafeteria trays to slide down a snowy Slayter Hill.

  I was secretly expecting to drive by the fraternity houses and spot familiar faces out there, clad in khaki shorts and white oxfords, feeding sips of Little Kings Cream Ale to a bandanna-wearing black lab/house mascot named Murph.

  Instead, I see an army of Justin Bieber clones, texting away as they hurry from one spanking new university building to the next. It’s all I can do to not scream, “Get a haircut!” at each of them as we cruise by. Oh my God, I feel so old.

  As we pull up to the Union, I’m melancholy when I realize that all my favorite spots are gone, paved over into parking garages or turned into Starbucks. I haven’t been back at school since the late nineties specifically because I was afraid this would happen.

  I never wanted to be that pathetic alum accosting a bunch of undergrads about all the places that ceased to exist decades ago, all “Hey, kids, you could get a steak for a nickel over there and see a moving-picture show, too!”

  I never wanted to be the weird older lady pointing out the front corner of the Yacht Club, where the manager Ferris kept the topless bronze statue that I’d always cover in a paper-napkin bikini whenever I sat in front of it. No one cares that was the exact spot where we raised a glass to Kurt Cobain after his suicide, playing an endless round of Nirvana songs on the jukebox. I remember how we hugged each other, saying over and over with the kind of sincerity exclusive to kids in their twenties, “This changes everything.”

  No one wants to know how good the pizza at Garcia’s was, or how bad the drinks were at Pete’s. Or how I’d meet my best friend, Andy, at the little Chinese place every Friday for the three-dollar lunch special and how every week we’d laugh at how they refused to give us butter knives. [So, yeah, pretty much my equivalent of steak for a nickel.]

  Don’t get me wrong—I prefer to live in the now. I love my life and the people in it and nostalgia generally makes me happy. I wouldn’t relive my college days on a bet. No one tells you in your twenties how much better your forties are. [Primarily because if you knew how much your thirties would suck, you’d drink bleach.] But being back on campus, in the one spot where so many of my best memories were created, and finding a setting that’s completely changed is disconcerting.

  Fletch and I check into the Union. We get ready for the reception before the awards banquet and I dress carefully in a black wrap dress, accented with a snappy plaid scarf/shawl. Truth? I’m not wearing this piece for fashion as much as for function. I call this my “good eatin’ scarf” as it protects whatever I’m wearing underneath from errant mayo and salad dressing dribbles. As pleased with myself as I am at having created this solution, I remind Fletch to give me a kick if I try to tell anyone about it. Somehow I bet the Ambassador wouldn’t be impressed.

  The reception is in the room across from where the Student Check Cashing window used to be. Fletch, Joanna, Michael, and I all laugh, remembering how every Friday afternoon, the entire campus would line up at that window to cash a minuscule check for the weekend. The window’s gone now, replaced with a large bank of ATMs. I make a mental note to return there later to get money out of the machine, not because I need cash, but because it will be the first time at Purdue that I’ll have stood in that spot and had more than $10 in my bank account. [Related note? I still seek out ATMs that dispense bills smaller than a twenty. Finding one that spits out five dollars is like spotting a unicorn!]

  While we’re in the reception, we notice all the large oil paintings of dour old men sitting in leather armchairs. Fletch insists we take a picture of him posed that way, too. He looks eerily similar to the University’s founder and it makes me laugh, wondering if John Purdue was just goofing around with his old drinking buddies when he had his portrait done, too.

  I meet the other award recipients and they’re all lovely and in no way act like I don’t belong with them. I may or may not suggest we pose in a human pyramid when we get our photos taken, but I’m pretty sure they know I’m joking. [If I weren’t, I’d be a base. Am very sturdy.]

  The most surreal moment of the night happens when I enter the ballroom because I’ve been here before. The last time was twenty-four years ago when I was working for the University’s catering department. There I was, a few weeks from flunking out after my sophomore year and I found myself filling iced tea glasses at a banquet for the outstanding graduating seniors. As the speakers droned on about all the amazing accomplishments my peers had achieved, I felt very small and insignificant.

  But here? Today? I get a sense of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come, and I feel a sense of belonging. So when it’s time for me to step onstage and give my speech, I do it with confidence and panache and when I’m finished, I swear the audience claps louder for me than any of those graduating seniors so many years ago.

  There’s a point later in the ceremony when we accept our awards and everyone acknowledges those who helped them get there. During my acceptance, I thank all of the usual sus-pects, including Brian Lamb, founder of C-SPAN, who happens to be a special guest at the dinner. You see, he didn’t hire me for a C-SPAN internship back in the day, primarily because the time I me
t him I’d been marinating in gin for a few hours and I may or may not have mentioned how much “I likesh Congresssshhhh.”

  I give a quick summary of the story, adding that he shouldn’t worry and that everything worked out for me without the internship.

  And in that moment, I bring the house down.

  After the ceremony, hugs are exchanged and photos taken, and I finally feel like I’ve officially graduated from college and into adulthood. All in all, this has been a great end to a spectacular evening and the next time Purdue asks, they’re getting the first check I’ll have voluntarily written them and trust me, it will be for more than ten dollars.

  This is where I wish the story ended.

  It doesn’t.

  After hitting the ATM—two hundred dollars, because I can!—we change into our bar clothes and meet Joanna and Michael in the lobby. The plan is to hit Harry’s for a couple of drinks and then head to more grown-up venues with our local friends. In the years since I’ve been gone, the town’s become a bit of a destination, full of gastropubs and wine bars, which sounds really nice. Besides, Harry’s is bound to make me sad because when I walk in there, it won’t be like it was back in the day. Rather, I’m going to run into nothing but college girls in skimpy tank tops [That’s what the kids today wear, yes?] as Ke$ha and Katy Perry tunes play on the jukebox in the background.

  No, thanks.

  Then the damndest thing happens—we enter Harry’s and it IS 1993. The place looks—and smells—exactly like it used to and the old friends we’d hope to meet are right there at the door while Steve Perry wails in the background about holdin’ on to that feelin’.