Flew into Green Bay for the college reunion weekend. Spent the night at the Kohler Lodge, just across the street from Lambeau Field. The view out my window was the iconic Packers' stadium. I spent time in their merch shop, which is as large as a Target. Bought a nice windproof vest that I could wear year-round if I still lived in the midwest. In the morning I ran laps around the stadium in the absence of nearby running trails. Lambeau Loops, I called them on Strava, taking a page from the venerated Lambeau Leap post-touchdown celebration.
I'll be back at Lambeau tomorrow for the Bears game. Right now I'm up in Michigan's gorgeous Upper Peninsula with four of my college buddies. As my sister Mary joked to me, my college friends and I used to sit around telling drinking stories but now we talk about our cholesterol. Which isn't too far from the truth.
We actually had a hearing aid/polyp discussion this morning. I've known these guys since I was 18. We have all grown up and had families and professions that have been kind to us. Half the group is sober now. We're all early-to-bed guys now, no longer feeling the need to stay up all night drinking cheap beer and dissecting the meanings of the albums being played nonstop on the communal turntable.
We've done all the things we normally do during our reunions — walk around Marquette, drive out to Presque Isle, pay a visit to the Third Base bar. I had a nice moment when I went into Queen City Running to buy socks. Sean Railton, my freshman roommate, told the woman behind the counter that I wrote The Long Run. She was either being very kind or being really genuine, but she was very excited to meet me, having read the book. Sometimes we all need a moment when someone makes a big deal out of us. Before I left she was telling her fellow employees about me, which led to more enthusiasm. It seems everyone has read the book. Even better, I think they liked it.
The great thing about old friends is that you can just be yourself. There's no point in pretense. Everyone knows that I get claustrophobic easily, and am prone to the Irish exit. It no longer surprises them. Better, they expect it and make fun of me when they know it's coming. Even now, slipping away from the group in our big Victorian Air BnB to write this blog, I'm seeking solitude. I can hear them in the other room. Nobody comes to find me. They know I'll be back when I get some air.
We were sitting around last night after watching a blues band at a local club. "Live Music Is Better" bumper stickers should be issued, in the words of Neil Young. Dan Brown grabbed me and said we should walk down to the Third Base. It's been a Marquette fixture for decades, even when we went to school here.
We sat down and got to talking. It was a set-up. Dan let me know that I look a little shaky these days. Not myself. None of my usual swagger. I agreed, because there's no hiding it from someone who has seen me at my absolute best and worst for 47 years. I told him about the nonstop anxiety, the inability to plan for a future, the disorientation, the catastrophic thinking. I'm sure other people have seen all this, though I lie to myself and think nobody notices because my facade is so strong. We talked about some possible solutions. Best conversation I've had in months.
We're just sitting around today. The bagel place on 3rd Street for breakfast where we admired the coeds and wished we were 20 again. Window shopping. Almost bought a sticker that said "Empathy Is Sexy" then remembered I don't like stickers on my Rover. Now a lazy last Saturday in town before we jet off to Green Bay at dawn. Probably college football on the big screens at some bar. Nothing too ambitious. Just a bunch of old friends sitting around talking about their cholesterol.