The last time I went home to Minnesota, I got together with my best friends from high school and we stayed up through the night — first watching an ill-advised screening of “2 Girls 1 Cup” and then recovering for the next six hours, talking and eating flan — until eventually we’d convinced Adelia to break her teaching contract in Korea.
“Yeah!” she said. “What am I doing?”
“Seriously,” we concurred. “What are you doing.”
“I don’t even want to go there!”
“You don’t even want to go there.”
“I want to go to Europe again!”
“Dude, you should seriously go to Europe again.”
“I’m going to email the program director right now and tell her to send me back my diploma.”
We watched her do it, then we convinced Kristy to kick out her silly boy roommates (with their utter lack of pans), then we convinced Adelia to move in to Kristy’s newfound living space, and then we played a Dave Matthews song I won’t tell you I like and danced in our sweatpants by the over-sized windows in Kristy’s living room. “Is this . . . the kind of thing I do?” I wondered briefly, flailing my arms around like I was at some Lilith Fair concert. “Oh, baah.”
It was something like three in the morning, and every now and then I could hear the oncoming and fading swishhhh of cars driving down Grand street, their tires throwing brown slush onto the curb.