It's been 10 years since I walked through the doors of CHS as a freshman. Four years after that, I walked through those same doors with the rest of my class, threw my little cap on the front lawn and never looked back.
Like Brad Paisley's 17-year-old self in "Letter to Me," my time in high school was nowhere near the best of my life.
I had some fun, made a few memories and even fewer friends. But I certainly don't yearn to relive those years like some people do.
I don't miss living in one dimension. In high school, you're defined by the sport you play, the grades you make or the person you date.
I've found that what mattered so much then means little now and vice versa.
I worked my tail off for a valedictorian medal that has been stuffed in a box in my parents' house since the day I graduated.
On the other hand, the guy I casually gave the "Let's just be friends" speech to my junior year is still my friend but he's also my husband.
I have no reason to want to go back because the woman I became is much happier than the girl I was.
It's not difficult to keep my nostalgia in check where my high school experience is concerned. However, I've discovered recently that the building itself means a lot more to me than I expected.
The Cordova High School that I know best is closed now. Many of its windows are broken or boarded up. Weeds are growing up around it. The inside, as best I can tell, has been ransacked.
Of course, there's a shiny new high school just a few yards away. It's quite an upgrade and something the community can be proud of.
But that is somebody else's school. It will never be mine.
Zac and I walked up to the old school several weeks ago while we were out getting some fresh air.
When I peeked through the door underneath the steps, what I saw upset me.
The cafeteria door was off its hinges. Ceiling tiles were missing. Wires were hanging down. A beer bottle was sitting right outside the classroom where I took two semesters of French.
I would hate to see what the rest of the school looks like.
It's not the first time that the building has endured such treatment. Several members of the last senior class to graduate there vandalized it a few years ago.
I talked to some of them when I went to take pictures before graduation that year. They were wearing bandanas on their arms and legs that marked them as the "jailbirds" that did the damage and asked me to take a group photo.
I'm not sure what punishment they received, but apparently it wasn't too harsh if they were that proud of themselves.
Hopefully, they'll grow up and realize that their actions were disrespectful not only to the school itself but to the generations of students that graduated there.
I'd love for the Board of Education to find some good use for the old school. But I know that they can't spend valuable resources on a building that is probably just going to be leveled one day so football fans can have a better place to park.
The science classroom where I was sitting when my teacher told us that the World Trade Center had been attacked will be gone then.
The library where I spent so many hours trying to put together the perfect yearbook won't exist either.
Also absent will be the auditorium where Zac and I talked while waiting for the final bell the semester that we were peer mentors. My first memories of getting to know him are riding to and from the elementary school together.
When I close my eyes, I can see almost myself throwing open the side door at 7:58 a.m., rushing through the auditorium to grab my books from my locker upstairs, then heading back into the auditorium and down the stairs past the cafeteria to make it to Coach Harmon's home room on time.
Soon, my Cordova High School will exist only in my mind. But that's okay.
A true Blue Devil never forgets.