fresh paint

There's a brand new school standing next to where I spent my Junior High days. The halls are freshly tiled and sparkly clean. The foyers have innovative architectural design. And, even if you tried, you wouldn't find any dicey information in any of the bathrooms stalls. The only thing missing, is memories.

I went with my seventh grade son to check out where he'd be spending the next two years of his life. It's a beautiful new school with state-of-the-art science rooms and high-tech media centers. Funny thing is, it's hard for me to see past my own experience. My days in Junior High are as fresh as the paint in his new school.

His shiny new locker has never been decorated with streamers and candy for a birthday or had a lengthy note meticulously shoved through the ventilation holes. Or had somebody whacked up against it. Or had someone shut its door prematurely. Or had a really small student squished inside. But it won't take long for that locker to be burned into his recurrent I-forgot-my-combination nightmare for the rest of his life.

There are no designated group areas yet. Like the girls who have boyfriends and cool argyle socks sit at this lunch table and the boys you're seriously afraid will do serious harm to you hang out at that door. Or the girls who've been to second base claim on the spot in the foyer of the main bathrooms. Or the back row of your algebra class where that boy always sits who you can't stop thinking about while you're sitting on the front row because your teacher seats you according to your score on the most recent test. (and the front row ain't the As). But it won't take long for my son constantly think about that corner of the auditorium where he first laid eyes on "her".

The gym is prestine. It even smells nice. But before he knows it he'll have emotional scars from having to change in front of 20 other kids who surely don't have a distorted body image. He'll discover the true value of deodorant and cool-looking underwear. And take a few seconds longer to check his appearance in the mirror before he goes back out into the hallway scrutiny. He might even snap a few treasured pictures in that gym from his first school dance where he first experiences the full extent to which one can feel totally awkward and completely uncomfortable but, at the same time, wish the moment would never end.

Thankfully, it does.

Good Luck, son.