It seems so long ago that I graduated from college.  In fact, a baby girl born in 1987, the year I graduated, would now be old enough to go out on a date with Woody Allen.  It's amazing how time flies.

Even so, I have vivid memories of college, especially my academic woes.  I never appeared on the Dean's List, but I did make several appearances in the Dean's office.  I wasn't a dope, but a perpetual SOAP (student on academic probation).  Getting a good grade in a class was almost as hard for me as getting a good date.

But I've since made up for it in graduate school (the grades, not the dates) and was hoping that others had forgotten my past.  Apparently not.  The other day, a retired professor ran into my mother and told her what a troublesome student I was.  Yes, much to my dismay, he gave her a report card that was atleast 14 years late -- almost as late as Michael Jackson's psychiatrist.

That makes me wonder: Isn't there a statute of limitations on bad grades?  After all, if I had taken a tub of ice cream from the college cafeteria, I couldn't still be prosecuted. (I'm not saying I did.  I deny any involvement with such a crime.  And my lawyer has advised me not to say any more.)

Even if I had filed for bankruptcy, my record would have been cleared after 10 years and I would now have enough credit to buy not just one, but several politicians.

I wouldn't have minded if the professor had been a little tactful and said something like this to my mom: "I remember your son.  Didn't he get a bachelor's degree in video games?" or "Your son was quite a student.  The other professors and I are still celebrating his graduation."

I must admit that I hate discussing the errors of my past.  I know I can't change them, so I'd rather focus on the present and future.  If you want me to talk about the past, you'd better bring up my achievements.  I'm willing to discuss them until the day Don King goes bald.

I'm beginning to understand how President George W. Bush felt when reporters kept asking about his drinking days or how former President Bill Clinton felt when asked about his draft-dodging days.  "Those darn reporters will never forget my younger days," Clinton must have said to himself.  "I wish they had something else to write about.  Hey, who's that cute intern over there?"

Politicians who run for the presidency open their entire past to scrutiny.  Eager for a scoop, reporters delve into almost every area of their lives.  Did they write on a bathroom wall in grade school?  Oh no, that means they might deface the White House walls and draw a handlebar mustache on JFK's picture.  Did they smoke marijuana in high school?  Oh no, that means they might legalize drugs and turn Colombia into the world's richest country.  Did they attend a PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) meeting in college?  Oh no, that means they might appoint a monkey to the cabinet.

It must be even tougher when you're a convicted felon who's already served time.  Society never quite accepts you.  Getting a decent job is a struggle.  And you're not allowed to vote, even though you'd do a better job than most people in Florida.

Your past always follows you, never lets you go.  And you want to scream, "I'm a changed person!"  But nobody listens. 

They're too busy running away from you.

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