Being a senior at my high school was not a perk-ridden position. Your upperclassman status usually came with the right to torment freshman within reason (not my cup of tea) and the option of having lunch outside in the courtyard on pleasant spring and fall days. I remember these lunches more clearly than most of my jumbled high school memories. The cast changed depending on whether or not it was an A or B day or first of second semester. But I remember La Witt. And I remember that it was here that we hatched the beginnings of The Plan.

The Plan–not to be confused with my Le Plan, which was to move to Paris with Hodge and run a street crepe stand business–was that we (La Witt and I) would move to New York in some adult form of ourselves, preferably after graduating with honors from Northwestern University. In New York, we would naturally own some crazy, gorgeous Manhattan loft. Not that we so foolish as to overlook the cost of living in the Big Apple. We would round up for gay men (boys are always less drama) to be our roommates, pick out our clothes, and help pay the rent. It was all somewhat Sex in the City despite having never seen an episode.

While The Plan was obviously more fluff than substance, it still follows me, living somewhere in the deep if not dark recesses of my mind. Every time I pack up and move again, I wonder if maybe I’m getting closer to the person my 18-year-old self lightheartedly dreamed of becoming. When I was 22, I moved to the East Coast on really nothing more than a whim. By the time I was 24, I was living just a block outside the District of Columbia line, scraping together rent and riding the metro into the city everyday. And now, at 26, I live in a rowhome in the bohemian epicenter (it’s about as hipster as politicians and non-profiteers can get) of our nation’s capitol. Although none of my roommates fall into the gay male category and will probably never be responsible for selecting my outfit in the morning, they are among some of the most urban, intellectual, and interesting people I’ve come across in my four years here.

I may have ended up in the wrong city. And most days I may not have any idea where I’m going in life. But this week–as I pop into my favorite used bookstore on the walk home, or pass the embassies on my morning stroll, or make plans to meet for drinks with my old friends all living within a few block radius, or just drink a beer as new friends stop by–I feel like I just might have fulfilled one of my dreams in a roundabout and unexpected way. It may not get me voted as Most Successful at our 10 year high school reunion but the memory of me in that courtyard knows how far we’ve come.