At Twenty

At twenty I was in love with the mirror, savoring Rutgers, working part-time and taking care of my German Shepherd. I was trying to avoid being completely self absorbed and failing. I joined a fraternity and hated it. So much was happening in 1968 in politics, music, and society. I grew a fine looking mustache.
I wrote satirical pieces for the school newspaper and expounded on whatever floated around us. I was ready to enter the world as a mature, responsible citizen.
Where it went wrong I don't know. I switched my major from psychology to education. I wanted to teach. Then I got into a classroom and realized I didn't like kids all that much. I spiraled into thirty years of carrying mail. Perhaps I could have been an excellent psychologist, appearing in panel discussions, writing books, helping innumerable troubled souls. Maybe I would have gotten my own radio show.
At twenty I never thought I'd be staying out of everyone's way, keeping my opinions to myself. No, at twenty the world was my oyster, but somehow over the years the shell became more important than what was inside.