The brain has the amazing ability to compartmentalize time in a way that can make us forget how much time has actually passed. For example, when I’m watching Netflix, my brain will ignore the fact that I’ve watched 3 hours of Grace & Frankie. My brain will swim in this blissful interlude until something cracks it— like the window that pops up on the Netflix app. You know the one I’m talking about. The Netflix window that asks if you are “still there” because so much time has passed since you began watching that it thinks you might be dead.
Personally, I hate this Netflix feature. My brain doesn’t want a reminder of how long I’ve been watching TV. I don’t want someone judging my life choices like that. After all, if I really wanted someone to judge me, the best way to do that is to give birth to a baby. Because then you can watch the entire world criticize every choice you make as a mother for the next 18 years.
Anyway, in addition to compartmentalizing time, the brain is also really good at making us forget how old we actually are. Recently, my high school class celebrated our 20th reunion at the amazing event venue, The Century, owned by our classmate, Erin. Once arriving at the reunion, the glamour of the surroundings was a blast of reality. While my brain understood that 20 years had passed, it hadn’t really understood that we were 20 years older until that very moment. The twinkling lights, the crisp table linens, and the fancy cheeseball shaped into the numbers ‘1999’ were glaringly grown-up. I suddenly realized we weren’t people that had a slice of pepperoni and a soda from Pizza Plus for lunch anymore. We were going to have caprese skewers with aged balsamic. We were going to eat an adult dinner using adult dishes at adult tables.
On the cocktail menu, I saw Gin Rickey. My newly-awakened brain recognized Gin as a very grown-up thing to drink. So, I ordered one. And then I proceeded to put a 14-inch red straw that I stole from a movie theatre into the drink (yes, I may be Adult Elizabette, but some things will never change). My cripply SMA ass will always need to use a straw in a drink. Even though my hands are a little stronger now with Spinraza, they will never be strong enough to lift a cocktail in fancy glassware handcrafted by some dude in Germany.
Another signal to my brain that time had passed? Suddenly most of the guys in my class weren’t recognizable. They were taller. They had facial hair. They had wives that made them wear pants that actually fit. It was very jarring.
My friends and I began to not-so-secretly flip through pages of the yearbooks on display like we were identifying suspects in a criminal lineup:
“Who is that guy over by the balsamic caprese skewers?”
“I don’t know.”
“His chin is bigger than the one in this picture.”
“Yeah— I don’t think he’s our man.”
But, it was when a big-smiled guy approached me with a hearty, “ELIZABETTE!” and a hug that I realized that I had an extra disadvantage in this game of high-school reunion Guess Who. I couldn’t recognize the guy hugging me. He looked nothing like anyone in my class. His chin wasn’t familiar. His pants were appropriately-sized.
But, he clearly knew me.
While being me has many perks (see HERE), one thing is very lacking— anonymity. It’s super obvious who I am. I was the only person in a wheelchair in my entire high school. In fact, I was the first person with a significant physical disability to graduate from Patterson High. So, I could literally have had a Caitlyn Jenner-style transition and they would still pick me out of the crowd.
It’s important to note that this lack of anonymity also makes it impossible for me to commit a serious crime. Don’t believe me? Imagine this:
Police Detective: “So, do you have any idea who may have committed this robbery?”
Bank Teller: “Well, she was wearing a mask… but she was driving a fancy black electric wheelchair.”
Police Detective: “And you say she was armed?”
Bank Teller: “Yeah, but her hands were too weak to even point the gun at me. I felt kinda bad, so I gave her the money anyway.”
This lack of anonymity did nothing to help me in this moment at my reunion, however. I was losing this round of Guess Who. As he pulled back from his hug, he said, “It’s me— Gilbert!”
“No-you-are-not!” This slipped out before I could help myself. Like when I cuss in front of small children or loudly burp after I eat cucumbers. It’s just not my fault when things like that happen.
My brain was not reconciling the evidence presented. This was Adult Gilbert twenty years in the future. Not little teenage Gilbert. It was as if, once again, my brain was desperately trying not to acknowledge how long I had been watching Netflix. It wanted to ignore the little pop-up window on the app insinuating that only a dead person would be watching TV for this long.
A little later that evening as I began eating my fancy dinner of chicken in a mushroom cream sauce, I started to think that the being-20-years-older-thing has its perks, too. We are more mature. Our clothing choices are better. And, the food is definitely more sophisticated than back in 1999. And, while it could have been the gin fueling those thoughts (which is possible), I still suddenly couldn’t wait to see what the next reunion would bring.
And at least there’s one thing for certain: I still won’t have to worry about not being recognized…