Mason mentioned to me at his 5th grade graduation that he is in the class of 2018. I said, "No honey, you're in the class of 2011." He shook his head and said, "Mommm! I meant high school! Sheesh!" Okay, he didn't really say sheesh, but I can't accurately encode into written language the meaningful noises that come from my eleven year old. Essentially, sound he made was meant to convey the fact that I'm hopelessly backward and unaware of some very basic facts. In effect, sheesh.
The far off pronouncement of a 2018 high school graduation wouldn't ordinarily be cause for alarm. It sounds like there's plenty of time between today and then. But I am not ordinary, and the truth is I can't remember what happened to the last eleven years and how I ended up here with this beta test man person who is nearly as tall as I am and who wears the same shoe size. It really seems to me that we ought to have just gotten to the year 2004. I would be totally comfortable writing 2004 on my checks, and checking my DSL e-mail connection. Although I'm a fraud, because when it actually was 2004, I remember wondering what happened to 1998. I also distinctly remember in 1992, after getting a notice from Sallie Mae that if I continued my school loan repayment plan as scheduled that my loan should be forgiven in 2002, thinking, "Wow. 2002. Will I even be alive then? That's so far away. Good grief we'll probably be traveling in flying cars by 2002." Now I'm beginning to wonder if 2002, and indeed the whole first decade of the present century wasn't secretly abbreviated by some shadowy government agency while we were all out watching Harry Potter films. Because it sure seems like it. Area 51, I'm looking at you. Not sure why, but I am!
Twenty-eighteen. Only seven more shopping years until my baby goes to college.
I am almost certainly not going to handle it well when 2018 comes about in real time, or in six months as it will seem to me. At least my student loan is paid off. Mason's wont be forgiven until 2032!
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