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They’d pushed together two tiny cafe tables hours earlier, the five women, and had shared several courses of breakfast/brunch/lunch/desert deliciousness. From the eggs, bacon, and (of course) banana french toast, to the turkey sandwiches, salads, and potato salad, to the red velvet cake, there remained bits and pieces of food to mark their morning together.

They laughed, they shared stories, they tried to speak into each others’ lives.

No, I wasn’t trying to be nosy and eavesdrop.

I was lost in my thoughts, enjoying my own dish of breakfast-in-the-afternoon and ceramic cup-full of espresso and cream ["she pours a daydream in a cup" ~oren lavie], enjoying the gloomy weather outside, drinking in my cold weather playlist, and pausing every now and then to read a paragraph from my book.

But their laughter would snap me back to their conversation, and it made me so happy to see them. They were what, 5? 7? 10? years older than me, some married, some not. I loved seeing them talk about love languages and life events. They reflected aloud and tried to figure out what they were supposed to be learning from current life struggles. They remembered the things they had gone through years earlier.

It made me think of my friends now. It made me think about my life now. It made me get so excited about hanging out and sharing hours-long meals with the same friends (and hopefully some new faces as well) when I am the same age as these 5 women. What will life look like for me then? More importantly, in 5, 7, 10 years, what would I say about life as it is right now? What would I say I had experienced and learned that Fall of 2010, those months of intense heat and cold rainstorms?

I don’t know. It’d be a mix of many things.

After a joyous week in which I saw so many friends and shared so many meals together (bazaar, factory, rehearsal dinner, Evan and Justine’s beautiful wedding, o.b. bear…) and in a time when I am looking forward to the next several weeks (halloween, seattle, pre-thanksgiving, thanksgiving, Christmas, snowboarding) I know I would say something about being able to have so much quality time with friends. I would remember nights when my friends and I would push together 3 chairs and squeeze 5 of us onto those seats as we listened to jazz and shared delicious burgers. I would remember pretending we can afford $65 dollar meals and several trips each year. I would remember celebrating friends who knew they desired to spend the rest of their lives together.

I know I would remember the painful struggle of long-distance love. The longing to see each other, the unwanted pressure to make up for weeks of time apart during our few hours together, the pressure that crowds my ability to just be in the moment and enjoy it all. The realization that I’m not the only one craving time with him, coupled with understanding his desires to spend time with others as well. We’re all just trying to make the most of time together while we can, aren’t we? The goodbyes. My sliding into the crazy-girlfriend persona I hate so much.

But I hope that even more than that, I would also remember the joy of our love. The hello’s. The embraces. The slow dances. The late night’s and quality-time spent with with our friends, just as we used to, enjoying food and conversations. Jamming as much goodness into each day as we can. The surprise gifts. The efforts to understand me and accommodate my needs. Being able to watch him be the man I fell in love with as he runs on stage and sits next to the groom so he won’t be alone on his wedding day during his wife’s outfit change. As he gives a heartfelt toast. As he dances and dances and dances the night away. As he goes back to that far away city to work so hard at something we’re all so proud of him for.

Of course, I would remember something about work. How it slowly became something I liked again, as those relationships were built with students. How I stayed there with four 9th graders until 7pm one night just hanging out and laughing uncontrollably. How I began to receive compliments on my teaching from students. How a few of last year’s students credit our time together with why they’ve turned things around and are doing so well this year. How last year’s students excitedly invite me to quinceaneras. How my new students shyly invite me to family parties. How we carved pumpkins in advisory.

At the same time, I would remember how work was still unbelievably difficult. How my room smelled like rotten pumpkins. How I struggled with increased responsibilities. How I searched to find the authoritative side of me as I tried to lead and hold accountable a small group of teachers who were almost all months, years, and even decades older than me. How I watched my students being hand-cuffed, slammed against fences, and driven off in cop-cars, criminalized before my very eyes. How I wanted so badly to inspire my undocumented students and inform them that college was an option… potentially the only option in a time when half of our country would just as soon not have them here. How I tried to help my students fight ‘the system’ that holds them back when they still see me as part of that same damn system.

When I am one of those 5 women, you’d better believe I will still enjoy crunchy banana french toast as much as I do now. When I look back, I think I will remember this as a time of extremes. Extreme love for what I am doing, extreme longing for something different. A time for hard, but important lessons learned.