I have grown accustomed to my own particular routine: the smoke breaks with good friend Chris Curry (even though I don’t smoke); regular wine “tastings” that devolve into socialist rants and long diatribes about music; Scrabble games that edge toward the bawdy; seasons of Everwood devoured for pure pleasure; evenings pouring over digital files in advance of regular Campus Free Press publication; late night conversations about game, the lack of it and the regularity with which money disappears. The routines offer more than comfort though; after awhile everything feels stock—as though it’s expected—and suddenly it emerges: “This is my life.” A life. As in “I’ve built myself something separate from my brothers and sisters, parents, people I knew in high school.” It’s the evolution of a personal foundation that comes with defining values and opinions, even if sometimes those two seem jarring. Suddenly students who milked the government for student loans become worried taxpayers; folks who crusaded for liberal agenda find themselves voting conservative. Somehow the newfangled routine becomes a blueprint for a life. I find it endlessly fascinating. It’s also so crushing since, like all good things, the stability we build up ends eventually.
I think that’s called adulthood.