My view of myself has changed as well. Whendressing for the Head last year, I caught myselfreaching up in the closet for my navy blueL.L.Bean sweater with white flecks.
In high school, I wouldn't have thought twiceabout it. This time, though, the Harvard studentin me laughed at my ingrained preppy habits. I putthe sweater on anyway.
As I walked down to Memorial Drive, I passed agang of Exeter students lugging their backpacks. Iwaved hello to the few kids I recognized. Iwandered alone through the crowd for a few minutesand experienced a slight pang of regret--where wasthe exciting Head of the Charles I remembered?
Then salvation appeared in the form of anExeter friend I hadn't seen in two years. "Onehundred and thirteen," he blurted out, ignoringany formalities. "You're the 113th person I'veseen that I know. How have you been?"
We started talking, and I joined him in hisquest to run into as many friends as possible onthe the banks of the Charles. Everyone from Exeterhad come. I saw people I had completely lost touchwith, and friends I still write to regularly.
The Head had drawn us all back together again.Although the regatta no longer dominates ourconversation and our calendars, it still casts itsspell over preppies across the country and callsthem to Cambridge.
The magic has changed, but it hasn't vanished.I will always treasure the Head of the Charles. Itgives me a chance to see old friends, to relive myhigh school days. I suppose that makes me atrue-blue preppy, but I don't mind.