Among the forgotten things I found in the back of my closet over the weekend was the journal I’d kept in college and just after. I glanced through it, distracting myself from all the chores of moving for half an hour or so. It is primarily a record of the depression I was struggling with and the guys I was dating. Some what I’d written amused me, some of it was embarrassing, and some entries just brought back fond memories.
The most interesting entry was about my first date with Brian. It wasn’t interesting for its own sake—more for the fact that it doesn’t match either Brian’s or my memory of that night. Both of us remember the date being somewhat awkward. I remember him not talking much during dinner. He remembers being nervous, not knowing what to say, and being afraid to look at me because I was wearing a sexy dress, and he was worried about being caught staring (which was really the whole point of the damn dress).
But the day after that date I didn’t write about any nervousness or awkwardness. I wrote about what a good time I had, how comfortable we’d been, how we talked and talked and talked forever over dinner. I can’t say with certainty which is the more accurate description of that evening. I’m inclined to think my memory is correct. Maybe it was just the euphoria of a new relationship that made me write what I did. At the time, that night was apparently absolutely perfect.