Most of my college friends do not live in the area.
Somehow, despite having gone to college in New York state at a school that sends primarily from the Tri-State area, all but one of my friends live elsewhere.
Chicago, Vermont, South Carolina, the greater Boston area, Florida. They’re fucking everywhere but here.
As such, on the rare occasions when any of them decide to leave their homes and get onto a plane or bus and visit New York–and as a by-product, visit me–I’m fucking elated.
I suppose that is what makes it such a great feeling, no? If they lived close and visited often, it’d become commonplace.
Either way, the anticipation of the arrival and the actual arrival are my two favorite parts.
You know this person is coming for a good month or so, but in the days leading up you’re as excited as you’ve been in a while. Finally, something to distract you from the monotony of your every day life. Finally, you get to share your boring shit with your friend. Thank the lord.
Of course, the actual arrival… the first hug or pound or high-five or whatever your pleasure… that’s pure joy as well. It’s been months or more since you’ve seen this person–that release of happiness into a greeting is unlike many others.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Your friend is visiting and they didn’t tell you they’re bringing along their girlfriend or boyfriend or wife or husband. Of course, you don’t really like this person but beyond that the weekend is irrevocably changed and there’s no way you can explain that to your friend without sounding like a jerkoff.
scott spinelli 