American library books ยป Other ยป Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) ๐Ÿ“•

Read book online ยซJeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) ๐Ÿ“•ยป.   Author   -   Lancaster, Jen



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it comes to travel, Iโ€™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 itโ€™s best to find opportunities over which I can gloat, few and far between as they are.]

โ€œHow was your afternoon?โ€ 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.

โ€œNot bad,โ€ I reply. โ€œI had a manicure [OPIโ€™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?โ€

โ€œDoubtful,โ€ he says, tossing in sneakers and some workout shorts.

โ€œUm, are you going to the Co-Rec for a pickup game of squash or are you coming to a banquet with me? If itโ€™s the latter, why donโ€™t I help you pack?โ€ I suggest.

Not long after this, weโ€™ve got everything Fletch could need for the twenty-four hours weโ€™ll be gone. From pajamas to going-out shoes, Iโ€™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.

โ€œTheyโ€™ll get wrinkled,โ€ he complains. โ€œIโ€™ll grab them tomorrow.โ€

โ€œNo,โ€ I reply. โ€œYouโ€™ll put them in the car right now; otherwise youโ€™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.โ€

And with that, weโ€™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 itโ€™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 didnโ€™t go to the grocery store and thereโ€™s no food in the house. We stop at Arbyโ€™s and I do my best not to drip Horsey Sauce on upholstery. [Oh, forbidden potato cakes, youโ€™re the sweetest potato cakes of them all!]

When we arrive at Purdue, Iโ€™m shocked at how much itโ€™s changed. I guess I didnโ€™t expect it to be exactly the same as when I left, butโ€ฆ thatโ€™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, Iโ€™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. Itโ€™s all I can do to not scream, โ€œGet a haircut!โ€ at each of them as we cruise by. Oh my God, I feel so old.

As we pull up to the Union, Iโ€™m melancholy when I realize that all my favorite spots are gone, paved over into parking garages or turned into Starbucks. I havenโ€™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 โ€œHey, kids, you could get a steak for a nickel over there and see a moving-picture show, too!โ€

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 Iโ€™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, โ€œThis changes everything.โ€

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

Donโ€™t get me wrongโ€”I prefer to live in the now. I love my life and the people in it and nostalgia generally makes me happy. I wouldnโ€™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, youโ€™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 thatโ€™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? Iโ€™m not wearing this piece for fashion as much as for function. I call this my โ€œgood eatinโ€™ scarfโ€ as it protects whatever Iโ€™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

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