Peter Pan Grows Up

It came to me while I was driving home. Highway 280 is the Bay Area's version of the Autobahn. In the stretch between San Jose and South San Francisco, the eight-lane interstate cuts through the middle of nowhere, and thus has onramps only every couple of miles. So with low traffic density, few trucks, and lotsa lanes, cars have usually had free reins with speeding.

And on this night, it was about 11 as I made my way back to San Francisco, my hometown. The new speed limits were 65 mph, and I coasted along in one of the middle lanes at a comfortable 70 clip.

The thing that got me was how I'd changed. Two, three years ago, I'd have said "Heeeeehaaawww!!" and busted out to about 80. Screw the other cars--being the fastest one on the road means you're the winner. Screw cops--I can stay away from them. And even if they catch me, who cares? A ticket is a small price to pay for feeling alive.

Since then, I haven't really had any life-changing realizations that I should be more careful. I still have never got a ticket or gotten in a serious accident. So why have I changed?

Have I aged?

Ask any Crimson editor what they think about Joe and Anna getting married, and you'll hear something. I don't know what the exact answer will be, but I know that every Crimed has some opinion about it.

You see, Joe Mathews was the Crimson's Managing Editor over 1994, and Anna Wilde was the Associate M.E. They had been dating for a while, moved in with each other after graduation, and just tied the proverbial knot last month. Joe was an outspoken M.E. who thought nothing of sending a comper out in the rain to cover some meaningless story. He was--and is--an active person, liking sports and always fidgeting around. You don't describe him with passive words.

Anna, meanwhile, was less in-your-face; she was committed and determined, but didn't fidget nearly as much. I wouldn't call them opposites, but I surely wouldn't call them carbon copies.

The marriage announcement was pretty surprising to everyone in The Crimson, and in a matter of about 10 nanoseconds everyone who had ever comped were grilling each other on if they'd last, why they did it etc.

I was a flaming member of that gossip cartel. But after that drive down 280, I'm wondering if the interesting thing to watch is me, not them. You see, Joe and Anna are my first friends to marry.

That ticking sound you hear is my biological clock. My God, people are getting married! Should I be looking at ring catalogs other than Josten's? Should I start think of what china pattern I should register at Macy's?

Am I no longer a kid?

The empirical evidence says "yup." I'm 21, so I can buy beer, vote and can't go to juvenile hall. Hell, I can even get Zima. About a month ago, I went to a yuppie-ish cocktail party. The scary thing was, I had a good time.

I rather liked being a kid. Immaturity has always struck me as a good trait, whether it be making dumb jokes, shooting rubber bands at people or watching "Scooby Doo." And the Mystery Machine gang is just as cool as it was in second grade.

Okay, so what do I do? Do I just sit back, relax, let old age sneak up behind me and KAPOW!, I'm watching "Matlock?" Do I fight it by regression--dust off my old G.I. Joes and restart the never-ending combat with Cobra? Do I run to stay in place, or as John Cougar Mellencamp put it, "hold on to 16 as long as you can?"

Because things are changing real soon, I tell you.

I'm back on 280. Yes, I know that was a while ago, but it's a long drive from Stanford to San Francisco.

It's also pretty dark, but I'm on the S.F. city streets, and I could get home from here if I was blind. Right on Portola, changes into Market, left on Clayton, right on Ashbury and Clifford and there I am.

I'm a little surprised that it's all coming back to me so quickly. I hadn't been home since a few days in April, and I am entering my fourth year at Harvard. Not all my memories from high school are still there--at the reunion last December, I had about a 30 percent blanking rate--but a lot are.

The headlights cut into the foggy air, and I realize that I can't see more than 20 feet ahead of me. But I know exactly where I'll end up.