I heard your requests and I spent a good 15 minutes trying to find Greg. This is what happened. (I’ve kept names off to protect privacy. Although I believe I come out the worst. So I’ve kept my name off as well.)
I went to the well of eternal truth: Facebook.
This is going to be my one attempt at this: Does anyone who I went to college with remember the last name of a Greg who lived at the Elms?
That’s all I got…
A: Yes. Louganis
I would’ve remembered the guy I’m the speedo
In. That should be in.
B: Well it sounded a little inappropriate for you to be admitting that you were the speedo.
C: This is a fabulous conversation!
B: It kind of got off course when Marianne started talking about speedos. LOL
Then the conversation started to talk about a different Greg my friend married. No help here. So I messaged my roommate from the time.
I wrote a blog post about how I thought I saw Greg at the airport a couple of weeks ago and now I’m trying to remember his last name. That summer at the Elms… His roommate was in our biology class… We all went to Brick Oven.
HA! that is amazing to me that you would recognize him…..not sure I could. sorry, I dont remember his last name either. he will always be Summer Elm”s Greg
Then all hope is lost. I hope you don’t mind if I use that in a post. I had him as “Greg who likes Brick Oven.” Poor guy.
that name works also. And….he was right there with us during summer biology 101 gigglefest. Did you know that the rutting bull elk is the horniest of all creatures. ??? That’s what I learned in biology. I also learned how to hurl biology insults like “your mother had a frame shift”
And we use those amazing facts to raise the next generation. I also remember that about the elk and I’m still wondering how one learns that
So there you go. We still don’t know who Greg is but I bet you did just learn a new fact about elk.
I will make this promise: Next time I see someone at the Salt Lake City Airport that I think I know, I will go up. Yes, I will.
It finally happened. One of my many fears in life. I was at the Salt Lake City Airport and I saw someone I knew.
I was sitting at the terminal with my daughter. The flight before ours was getting ready to board when a group of four men stood up and I think:
“Hey! I know him. I think I knew him in England. I should just yell Coats. But is it Coats? Sure, it is. Wait. Coats had glasses. He doesn’t have glasses.”
(Luckily I didn’t think about how I was wearing contacts and therefore others might be as well.)
“But I know I know him.”
So I stared at him as he walked toward the gate. I turned in my seat and nonchalantly looked. (Unless staring without blinking isn’t nonchalant.)
Then it HIT! Greg! From my sophomore year of college. My roommate and I hung out with him and two of his roommates for a whole summer. We met because I’d had a bad day.
The guy I was “in looooove with” ignored me; I didn’t get the grade I wanted in a class; my hair didn’t work; my pants were tight.
(I don’t actually remember but these were the things that upset me when I was 19.)
I got home in the evening, put on my bathing suit and decided I was going to jump in the pool and sit on the bottom for about 39 seconds. I stood on the diving board. I got prepared to jump. I looked down. It looked cold. I wasn’t the Olympic swimmer I am back then. Cold water always stopped me. I stood on that diving board for about fifteen minutes. Maybe more.
Then I heard: “Just do it.”
I looked up. Some guy was sitting on a chair by the pool reading. I’d wanted a private moment. I deserved a little privacy while standing on the community pool’s diving board in the dead center of a four building apartment complex. Next to the parking lot.
“You’ve been there for fifteen minutes. Jump.”
“It looks cold.”
“You do it.”
“I’m not in a bathing suit.”
“If you jump now, you can go with me and my friends to the all you can eat buffet for $5.99 at Brick Oven.”
“Brick Oven has an all you can eat?”
“Yes. But you can’t come unless you jump.”
He stood at the edge of the pool and waited.
“Pizza and pasta?” I asked.
“And bread sticks.”
I jumped, got out, changed, told my roommate we were going to dinner and started a wonderful friendship built on cheap food. It lasted a whole summer and was one of the more fulfilling friendships I had in college.
I didn’t say hi. He was third in line to board when I realized who he was. Calling someone back as they enter an airport gate is usually reserved for romantic couples calling out to each other to stay. Not for calling: “Hey do you remember me? We shared Nachos Grande.”
We’d probably still be friends if we’d started with cake.
Well, I am on my way to Israel. By the time you read this, I will be in my third airport, eating my second TCBY yoghurt. When I am at the mall or around an independent shop, I walk right by and I have no desire to order a large yoghurt. At the airport, however, I see the large letters and must have a yoghurt in a sugar cone, with sprinkles.
Airports do something to me. I must have a yoghurt and I must read every tabloid available. After People, US Weekly, and OK, there isn’t much more to learn about the Kardashians, but I still want more. Then I pick out a top selling book with really big print and finish it before I get to my destination. If I do all of these things, the plane won’t crash. But this only works when I don’t have the kids with me and if it is a long flight. I have different rituals for the kids and short flights, mostly involving medication.
I am traveling for about 24 hours right now. That is a lot of yoghurt. I think I may be sick.