Mein Renaissance

Every now and then I get the urge to figure out whatever happened to the loves, likes and desperate crushes of my past.

This was the case for me last Valentine's day, which I originally planned to spend in bed watching Hulu, but ultimately found myself Googling my first college crush, Adam.

Usually, when I Google people I'll find a Facebook profile, or, if I'm lucky, a public LinkedIn profile where they detail their professional history in their own words (who knew so many of my old acquaintances had perfected the art of 'community building').

But when I Googled Adam, I found a documentary about his life.

Well, that's a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like a long form interview probably made by a film-making grad student and posted on YouTube. But the point is that I had a highly in-depth, personal look into the life of someone who used to occupy a notable amount of my brain space but hadn't crossed my path in almost 10 years.

As it turns out, Adam has done in 10 years what many people try to do over the course of a lifetime. By day he's a molecular biologist and by night he's a stand-up comedian. In between he fits in time to write plays and publish articles.


And he has a gig on the Food Network.


The most remarkable thing about all of this is that none of this is surprising. In college, Adam essentially did everything he does today. He spent his morning in labs, his nights on stages and did everything else in between.

I adored him for it. He was the opposite of the guys I went to high school with who tucked themselves neatly into discreet categories.

I never called Adam my boyfriend. He spent nights in my dorm room, took me to the formal at his eating club and even brought me home to meet his family once. But like many college relationships, it was officially ambiguous.

While our relationship was never clearly defined, his example still managed to shape contours of my college experience and my future relationships.

Adam's friendship, just like his documentary, compels the question, "If I like to do lots of things, why should I ever do just one thing?"

Sitting in my bed that Valentine's day, I felt as directionless professionally as I did romantically. I had spent the fall taking night courses in journalism, if for no other reason than being a journalist seemed to be the one profession where your only expertise had to be investigating something new.

Still, I had a rotating list of five or so other possible careers I could fancy, all of which, it seemed, would require singular focus if I ever wanted to make inroads.

One of the cruel jokes played upon my generation is the years of being told you should explore a little bit of everything in school, you should be well-rounded. Then we graduate to an economy that demands we be the expert in our niche, defined by a single professional title.

Adam's example defies those trends. So much so that I couldn't help but be skeptical of his ability to juggle and enjoy all that he does.

In the film, someone asks Adam if he'll ever pick just one thing. He said, "Maybe."

He left room for the possibility that one day he might like one thing more than the others. He acknowledged that doing everything was hard at times. But he said he loved all of it, and had always found a way to pursue his different interests in some way or another. The day he couldn't make it fit was the day he'd reconsider.

Maybe.

Since college I've met other remarkable people who remind me of Adam. The musician science lover, the well-read rock climber, the businessman poet--men who allured me with their closets of interests as much as their looks or charms.

I stocked my armory of interests, too. But unlike Adam, I've probably spent more time worrying about my ability to employ them rather than enjoy them.

But here's a start: my blog. Like the night classes, I'm trying to make writing fit. I like to do lots of stuff and have even more stuff I have to do every day. But no more excuses. I love this shit -more than most stuff, more than any man, more than any maybe.

-M