Nearly 15 years have passed since I opened that plump white envelope to see Dean Jean’s “Brava, Lainie!” dashed at the bottom of my acceptance letter in bright red ink. Despite the years, the feelings of relief, excitement and almost unbearable joy remain imprinted on my psyche; my pulse still jumps when I leaf through the mail to see a hefty package from the University. After all, as any Stanford alum knows, it’s the big, thick ones that contain the good stuff.
And this one—so chubby, the postman left it leaning against the doorjamb instead of trying to shove it through our narrow mail slot—did not disappoint. Contained within that deceptively simple brown wrapping was a two-inch-thick sheaf of reveries, nightmares and possibilities. It was my 10-year-reunion class book.
I immediately began riffling through the contents, poring over each entry. “Oh my gosh!” I squealed, looking at a photo of a smiling man—whom I recalled as a regular on the frat-party circuit—surrounded by a passel of look-alike children. Then there was the kid in my stats class—the one who always borrowed my notes the day before the exam—who went on to launch a high-tech company and is now worth more than most third-world countries. My, how things change.
Two hours later, I’d gone through the entire book, one page at a time. I’d skimmed the lives of former dormmates, reviewed the accomplishments of men I used to date and given myself a good case of intellectual indigestion, a condition that would wake me repeatedly through the night.
I lay there in the dark, consumed by bizarre thoughts and eerie half-dreams. Alternate realities lurked at the edges of my consciousness, hinting at lives that might have been. What if I’d gotten that business degree, lived in Paris for a year after graduation, opted for Southern California for grad school instead of upstate New York or even merely chosen a different dorm senior year? How many decisions would it have taken to derail my present life and catapult me into some parallel universe?
I’m not the only one obsessed with what might have been. Movies like Peggy Sue Got Married, Sliding Doors and The Family Man explore the other side of life’s coins. It’s only human to wonder what our days would have been like if we’d made different choices, if we’d done the right—or the wrong—thing. These pages offered me a chance to walk in someone else’s Manolo Blahniks, Birkenstocks or Cole Haans. And the possibilities intrigued me.
What if I’d gotten that on-campus job I’d applied for, for the year after graduation—would the two bedrooms down the hall now be silent and empty, lacking their Buzz Lightyear memorabilia and Little Tikes dollhouse? What if I’d stayed in Boston another year, instead of returning to California—who would be sleeping next to me tonight? Would I be living someone else’s life—and if so, who would be living mine?
In a recent survey, 11 percent of my classmates reported having struggled with depression at some point over the past decade. Maybe that’s what happened to some of them. Maybe they zigged when they should have zagged—or MD’d when they should have JD’d—and got stuck in someone else’s life.
Maybe somewhere out there, there’s a disgruntled radiologist flipping page after page in the class book until something grabs her eye. “Wait a minute,” she’ll say, scanning an entry with a growing sense of déjà vu. “I was supposed to go to law school at Northwestern, start my own software business and then take a year off to teach English in Japan. That’s my life!” Then, with a sigh of longing, she’ll dog-ear the page and try to figure out where the mix-up occurred and how she can reclaim the path that’s rightfully hers.
To these seekers, a word of encouragement: if there’s one thing to be learned from the pages of a Stanford class book, it’s that it’s never too late to go after the life you really want. These volumes are full of people who chucked it all to switch gears, careers and peers, who didn’t hesitate to try on different shoes when the ones they were wearing didn’t fit quite right.
One caveat, though: as you look through that book and get to entry No. 92, just keep on going. That’s my life, and I’m not trading it for anything.
Lain Chroust Ehmann, ’91, is a freelance journalist in Chestnut Hill, Mass.
