18

My bf's son turned 18 last week. We didn't really chat about what this milestone birthday meant to him. We don't chat much in general, actually. I told him happy birthday and asked if he'd registered to vote yet. He didn't get his driver's license until he was 17, so you can guess his answer. I remember as a senior in high school, our government teacher handed out voter registration cards to all of her 18 year olds. I was a year away from 18 as a senior; I turned the following summer. Turning 18 was a transitional birthday. From child to grown up. From high school to college. From minor to legal adult. From girl to, well, young woman. (It wasn't until my late 20s that I was comfortable calling myself an unqualified "woman".) I was coming off a high from the best year of my life, which was in stark contrast to most of the teenage years leading up to it. I had a great volleyball season, made fantastic memories in the jazz choir, somehow landed the lead role in the school musical though I'd never acted a day in my life, and was deeply in love with someone I knew I'd grow old with. My birthday was special, and I don't say that lightly. Mark threw me a surprise party. No one had ever done that for me before; I never had friends to invite to such an event, or someone who cared so much for me to be inspired to do it. Not to mention, he kept it secret - a rare feat - I have a knack for figuring out secrets. And while I wasn't especially intimate with these friends (Mark was everything, for better, for worse), it was a great time and a great memory. When I think back to that day, one gift always comes to mind first, from Paul, my date to the junior prom: a gift certificate to the local dive bowling ally, and a card that read "I know how much of an avid bowler you are." Which was about as random and false as you could get at that time in my life. I didn't fully appreciate his humor in the matter until years later. (And little did I know I would actually date an avid bowler for 3 years, establish my own 130 average and name my ball "Briana".) It was hot. There were pool toys. We swam a lot. Manual loved Mom's seven layer dip enough to race back into the house mid-bite to tell her so. When it was time to open presents, I remember feeling a little strange. Besides Mark and my parents, I was a closed book to people, guarded. There are a couple mentions in my year book about initial impressions of me being "stuck up", and later learning, thankfully, that it wasn't true. But, I wasn't known for my compassion. Secretly I was scared of my peers, truly afraid. And to add complexity to the equation, I was obliviously more concerned with right or wrong than feelings and circumstances (i.e. black and white thinking) - void of empathy. A self-conscious talker and a horrid listener. Nothing reminds us of those behaviors more than when surrounded by a large group of people gathered in "your honor". Looking around at the circle of faces and not feeling your heart stir as it should when you've connected with people. This would sadly be the first of many occasions like this for me. But I didn't know it; I hadn't lived enough life to recognize any of that yet. And I mostly indulged in the happiness of the moment and the happiness of my relationship with Mark. Collage started in a few weeks for many of us, some the following month. Some, like Mark, had another year of high school to go. A last big gathering before a parting of the ways. I often wonder if I was anything like his children are now. I doubt it usually, as they have no lack of self confidence or self esteem - one's even a cheerleader for Pete's sake. Of course one of his children is not a child anymore. He's 18, doesn't know what he wants to do, has no particular ambition around college, not so excited about work... ...hmmm ...maybe not so different.