Thanks for the memories

Swim Until You Can't See Land
Royal Blue

I spent some time looking at my old year books this past week.  It's nice to brush the dust off every couple of years and reflect back on where you've come from.  Apart from laughing at the massive shifts in weight, style, and facial features, the best part is always reading the comments people write on the first and last page. More than any famous autograph, the signatures held worth.
I remember being so concerned about who signed my book and what they wrote. How many signatures could I add to my collection? The signing of the yearbooks was almost ceremonial. As soon as they were passed out, everyone would rush to their picture and usually comment on how awful they looked. After our vanity was satiated, we'd look at our friends, the girl we had a crush on, enemies, teachers. And then the signing started.  Each signature crafted expertly to reflect the appropriate amount of inside jokes, hope for the future, and melancholy at the end of an era.
As I read through the notes that people left, I noticed a theme.  With little exception, people remembered me the same way. Grade school and high school. Although I changed drastically during this time, parts of me didn't. Book after book, note after note, people all said the same thing.  'You're crazy' and 'You're a really great guy'. Although I'd changed schools, friends, and uniforms, people all remembered me the same. It's not that I don't think about the impression that I leave on people, but I guess I've never really reflected on my legacy. How do people remember me?  I didn't get a yearbook at Widener, and I wouldn't want one from Nova, but I wonder if I had, what people would have written. Would friends still extoll my character and smirk at my depart from the normal?
I suppose I could ask my friends to tell me what they think of me, but that just not quite as fun as writing it down next to your picture and signing it with your autograph.  Maybe I'll see if Herff Jones will do a yearbook for my group.