I dug out my high school yearbook from senior year during the end of Spring Break. It was a combination of impending graduation wistfulness coupled with a “what’s past is prologue!”-induced search for anything that can assuage just how freaked out I am about that impending graduation. And then I discovered something: I was really, really terrible at predicting with whom I’d still be friends after high school.
I know that everybody’s kind of bad about predicting that sort of thing, especially folks in high school.
And I also know that sentimentalism runs high during yearbook-signing time, so people have a tendency to slather on the declarations of BFF-dom and pleas to keep in touch a little bit more liberally than they otherwise would. But it was still pretty surprising to see how woefully wrong we often were.
Someone who talked about how great it was that we’ve gotten a chance to get to know each other for the past few years, and how every time I’m back in town we’re definitely going to have to hang out? I’m pretty sure the last time I heard from him was a mass “Happy Turkey Day!” text in 2007. Someone who wrote, with unnerving sincerity, “Joe, you’re a douche bag, and I’m glad you’re leaving”? She’s become one of my closer friends. Though, to be fair, she’s made it clear that her opinion about my purported douchebaggery hasn’t changed; she’s just not quite as glad that I’d left.
I don’t mean to assign too much significance to a personal artifact from four years ago. You can find all manner of meaning and draw all sorts of parallels that don’t actually exist when you go diving into stuff from a transitional time, like finishing high school, while in a transitional time, like finishing college.
But one parallel I do think is legitimate is how, in both cases, I spent a fair amount of time worrying over who would still be in my life after four years. Or even after a year. Or even just after we step out of the graduation ceremony.
People have only so much time and emotional energy, and bridging geography is a trying task even for the most committed of friends.
Which is daunting, a little discouraging and resulted in me telling one of my friends, point-blank and very awkwardly, that I really want to be her friend after graduation. It was as lame as it sounds.
But I don’t think it’s productive to measure a friendship’s worth by its longevity.
Not every relationship is meant to be permanent, and those that aren’t can still be some of the most meaningful and resonant. In fact, one might even argue that the transience of some connections is part of what gives them value.
Friendship is predicated on the idea that at most points in your life, it’s nice to have someone who keeps you sane, who makes you laugh, who puts you at ease — not just because they get you, but because they get you and seem willing to put up with you too. Being friends means that you’re willing to be that someone for at least a little bit — and yes, sometimes, it really is just a little bit.
That’s not a call to bemoan the ephemerality of all things or to be paralyzed by the thought of future sadness. Rather, I’m taking it as an urgent little nudge to appreciate even the temporary things and maybe smile a little bit more at present happiness.
Joe Dellosa is an advertising senior. His columns appear on Tuesdays.
