Day CII: Sophomore

Well, dear readers, I am afraid you're stuck with me. We've officially begun the second phase of my multi-layered plan to take over the blogging world. 

Codename: #100MoreDaysOfJosh.

Pretty damn creative, yeah?

In this phase, the week is divided into seven days. On each day, I blog something new. Perhaps a poem, perhaps a memory, perhaps an observation. But always me. Now, I guess, on paper, that sounds pretty similar to the way the first one hundred days worked. And, mostly, it's true. There's nothing revolutionary about the way these next ninety eight days work. 

Well, there is one thing.

I am going to try and think of a new alliterative phrase for each day of the week so that there's a little more consistency to what's thrown up on this messy little website. Starting today. Friday. How does Flashback Friday sound? Freaky Friday? Fondled Friday?

Maybe not that last one.

We're gonna try #FlashbackFriday to start. Every Friday, I'll be pulling up an old photo for the world to see, and put forth my best analysis of what could possibly be happening in said image. 

So let's begin:

Boiz

This is a photo from my sophomore year of college. From left to right: Anthony Spain, Ryan Mather, and Josh Plattner (me). 

Let's take a minute to appreciate the following: Tony's necklace, our matching polos (?!), Mickey Mouse on Ryan's shirt, and dat hair. Remember when that was me?

Tony, Ryan, and I lived in an on-campus house during the 2008-2009 academic year with three other roommates, Emily, Shawn, and Abby. The five of them were seniors, and I was just a wee baby, a precious nineteen years-old. 

In this photo, it's a weeknight, who knows which, and we're at everyone's favorite Saint Peter hotspot: Patrick's on Third. One of the impossibly wonderful benefits of living with five older students, drinking at bars was never a problem. They had familiar faces to each of the servers and bartenders, so by the time I came around, there was no need to ask for IDs. I was just one of the seniors!

I was so spoiled. And by spoiled, I mean I was broke as hell and perpetually drunk. 

Let's just file that under "growing up." 

When I think back to that year, I can't help but recall the madness that takes place in a house of six giant personalities. The good, the bad, the impossibly ugly: all of it equally important. 

There are moments where living with them seems exceedingly far away, like distance and life have somehow formed a giant temporal chasm much larger than five years. And then there are moments, walking out of a coffee shop or hopping in my car after work, that I have to remember: I'm not going back to the Adolphson House, that life has changed and the world is not a snow globe on top of a windy hill in southern Minnesota.

I suppose every one of these flashbacks will summon some sort of frightful nostalgia. That I'll lose myself, however briefly, in fractals of "then" and "that-one-time."

And for that, I feel exceptionally grateful.