It is indeed ironic that we spend our school days yearning to graduate and our remaining days waxing nostalgic about our school days. – Isabel Waxman

I have never read a statement more true than that one. I’m not sure if Ms. Waxman experienced that personally. I know nothing about her. I’m sure she did; I think everyone does at some point in their life.

Throughout high school, we wait for the day until we receive that slip of paper in our hands, telling us that we made it. We are out of high school and we are now adults. You celebrate with your friends and family and think about your new life. You are a high school graduate. You can do whatever you want. You don’t have to attend another class as long as you live if that’s your choice.

You have to decide what you want to do with your life. There’s so many options that it’s hard to decide what to do. There’s college, a real full time job, become a bum, or end up on welfare. There are many different options, and it’s all up to you. It’s a hard decision to make because you’re still discovering who you are. Most people don’t know what they want to do with their lives. Some do, and they are the lucky ones.

I remember almost ten years ago when I graduated high school, I had my dream. I was going to leave town, and never come back. I was going to make it as a singer. I was going to be the next Faith Hill or Reba McEntire. I had the scene all planned out in my head of what my class reunion would be like. People would whisper, pointing at me. I could smile and say ‘Ha, look at me now’.

Yes, look at me now.

I’m not the next Mariah or Celine. I’m not even close. Where most of my graduating class has went on and obtained their college degrees or started their own little happy families, I just graduated college. I just began my real adult life. I just figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I just realized what my destiny is, well career wise. My destiny isn’t becoming a multi-platinum recording artist; it’s being a journalist.

It’s hilarious considering I flunked ninth grade English. By my senior year, I made perfect in it. I’m not sure why I did so bad my freshman year. I think it’s because I was becoming rebellious and my crush sat next to me. I was too occupied thinking about him, then to think about some of the great American novelist. I preferred British Literature, although my crush didn’t.

This is what that quote I stated earlier was talking about. We spend the rest of our lives thinking about high school, whether it’s classes or crushes. We can be talking to a random stranger, and something will trigger our memory about that time in our life. There’s memories of football games, dances, parties, fights, love – everything.

The thought of high school crosses my mind daily. I guess it’s because I left home with a lot of unfinished business. I never told things to a certain someone. There were secrets that nobody knew. There were friends that I never said goodbye to. I don’t keep in touch with them.

Now that it’s been almost ten years, it’s time for a reunion. I didn’t think high schools had those, but apparently, mine is. My aunt that lives in our old house got my invitation in the mail two weeks ago. She forwarded to me and I’ve stared at it since. It’s like my past is coming back to haunt me and I hate it. As much as I think about high school, I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to face the people there.

I don’t need past mistakes coming back to slap me in the face.

Ironically, I don’t have much of a choice. My mother wants me to go. She’s forcing me go to this reunion. She’s making me face some of my worst fears. My fears of failure and dishonesty are going to come back and bite me in the ass. It’s nobody’s fault but my own. It’s just easier to blame my Mom right now since it’s her that’s making me go back home.

It’s always easier to blame someone else. That’s the story of my life.

“Karie!” a tall, slender man yelled as he walked into my office. I looked away from my computer to see Greg, my editor, waving his hands at me. “Karie! What are you doing tomorrow? Do you have anything on your plate?”

“Not particularly,” I replied slowly. “I’m doing a phone conference with a new artist, but that’s it. What’s up?”

“This,” he said, tossing a CD on my desk. I looked down to see the Backstreet Boys and up at him. He had to be joking. “The Backstreet Boys are in town. They want some press, so go interview them.” I glared at him. “Can you do that?”

“Yeah, just… this is Nashville. What are they doing here?” I asked as Greg laughed. I didn’t think anything was funny. “I mean, they aren’t country.”

“Just do your job, sweetie,” Greg said as he turned to walk out of my office. “The directions and everything are in the CD booklet. You can thank me later.”

“Thanks?” I asked, hearing him laugh outside my office. “Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, looking down at the CD cover. The name of the album was “Never Gone.” Great, how cheesy was that? Pretty boys on the cover of an album in the middle of nowhere in suits with perfect hair and with that strange tattooed one, make-up – yeah, they were ‘N ever Gone.’

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“You get to interview the Backstreet Boys?” my mother asked that night at dinner. I sat down in the living room of her small apartment and turned the television to E! to watch the celebrity news. “This is pretty big, Karie.”“It’s not 1999 anymore, Mama,” I said. I put some salt on my spaghetti and watched her as she got excited. She loved the Backstreet Boys for some reason and I never liked them. “Why can’t they give me something big? You know, LeAnn Rimes is getting ready to release a new album of new material and there’s all these rumors that Garth Brooks is coming out with a new album too.”

“Expand your horizons some,” my mother sighed. “They might not be country but they’re big, honey.”

“Right,” I whispered to myself, tucking my long dark hair behind my ears. “They’re big. I just have to keep telling myself that.”

“Yes, you do.”

“While praying that interviewing them doesn’t kill my growing career,” I muttered, slurping spaghetti in my mouth. I looked at my mother to see her shaking her head and I knew this was going to be a bad idea.

“Did you mail your RSVP back for the reunion yet?” she asked as I shook my head. “You need to! This is your ten year reunion and –“

“I’ve got more important things to think about,” I said as she shook her head at me.

The thing I hate most is talking to people, especially “pretty boys.”

Writers are supposed to be good with words and I’ve always found myself stuttering when I try to talk to someone. Sure, you can’t really stutter when you’re typing or writing longhand, but that’s why you have the backspace button and an eraser. When you talk, you can’t backspace or erase – that’s what sucks about talking.

Then again, you have to talk. You have to talk every single day to almost everybody you encounter – especially if you’re in a small town.

That’s what I like about living in Nashville, Tennessee. I don’t have to talk to everybody I pass on the sidewalk. There’s still that small town vibe, but it’s a big enough town that you can walk by someone and they won’t ask you your life history.

I like that.

I like it better that the world gets to hear what I have to say by the way of the written word. They don’t have to hear me carry on, in my southern accent, mispronounce words, or hear me say the wrong thing. I have that problem a lot.

Thankfully when you speak through the written work, there’s an eraser, white-out, or the backspace key to help you when you say something wrong. No matter what your mother told you, there is no backspace key in life.

God, I wish there was a backspace key in life. I would use it hourly or at least every few minutes.

I’ve made a fool of myself so many times that it’s not even funny. Whether it’s in front of my boss or in front of a guy, I’m always able to do something klutz-worthy that is sure to make everybody laugh.

I’m sure I’m going to need that backspace key in life for this interview tomorrow.