Friday Night Lights

I happen to date an Anglo-Italian who, for since as long as I've known him, has had an obsession with American culture. In fact, his opening 'line' when we met was--'Oh my God, are you American?'  Paul's persistence paid off--after I rolled my eyes and sent him away, he came back seven songs later, dance moves in hand.  The rest, as one says, is history.

Fast forward to my brother's wedding at the end of October.  It was the first time I'd been in the US in the autumn for years and Paul's first.  Between rehearsal dinners and family events that overtook a four-day-trip to the states, we managed to sneak out for a cheeky hour of the high school football game.  It was like walking out of my parents' house and straight into my past.  Considering my family doesn't trust me with their cars and we got dropped off at the gates, it was uncannily like my high school days.  

Paul was over the moon.  With a spirit akin to Christmas morning and the first day of holiday combined, he bopped to the music of the band, marveled over the community spirit and tried to pretend like he knew what was going on on the football field.

Because donuts were not an option.

For me, minus the glasses, braces and bad hair, it was like no time had passed.  The band played the same fire up tunes, had the same order of songs, marched off the fight song whose words I still remembered.

In formation.

The cheerleaders did the same flips, cheered the same cheers, tumbled their way dizzy.

And it was kind of glorious.  Don't get me wrong, you couldn't pay me enough to go back.  But nostalgia reminded me of the grand adventures I had in my teens and the friends I made in the process.  For Paul, he could put an understanding to his reformed band geek girlfriend whilst celebrating all things Americana.  

Oh, where does the time go?