It takes about seven hours to drive to Murray, Ky. Considering Chicago traffic, of course, it’s usually more like eight or nine. But this weekend I’m making the trek along with a few friends of mine. We’re going home. To my home.

Yeah, I know, it’s Dillo Day weekend. But it’s also the first time that my mom has directed the high school musical, and to me, that’s much more important than watching Bela Fleck and participating in random illegal activities. Here’s a shocker: I’m not such a big fan of jam bands or breaking the law. (Why is it that the two have a tendency to go together?)

Lucky for me, I have friends who also aren’t too keen on attending this year’s Lakefill fest. Although no rockstars are included in the weekend package I’m offering, they decided that seeing my hometown would be a better show overall.

And, you know what? I’m scared.

Because this is huge. I’ve never had a group of college friends come home with me before. I know for some of you local folk it’s not a big deal. You bring people by your parents’ houses all the time for dinner, a relaxing weekend or even just to check the mail. That’s not how it is with me. I haven’t let friends into that secret world. That world I call – roll theme music here – the past.

For the last four years, I’ve been College Ellen. People here know me in the present tense. They know that I work at Pick-Staiger Concert Hall, write for The Daily, sing in Significant Others, and attend as many rock shows and plays as I can. That’s who I am. Sure, they know that I grew up in a dry county in Western Kentucky where all the rivers meet, but they don’t know who I really was before I came here.

Wow. That paragraph makes me sound like I used to be some kind of psycho serial killer. That’s not what I was going for.

Here’s what I’m trying to say: So many people come to college to reinvent themselves, to start carte blanche as a new person without a past. (It’s almost like they’re trying to emulate Sam in “Quantum Leap,” but not to such an extreme level.)

College is seen as a new beginning, a chance to leave the past behind. When we come to college, we develop a potentially harmful disorder: selective memory. If you want, you can forget that high school ever happened. You can brush aside any family problems, erase the years you were on the math team, disremember the fact that you’re not a natural red head. And no one will know. They’ll only know the person you allow them to see.

Well, until they come home with you. And then, all of a sudden, it’s no holds barred. You’re just standing there, completely exposed. Heck, there’s even a spotlight shining on those places you’re not too crazy about. And they’re looking; they’re peering. They’re figuring you out.

But what have I got to worry about? My friends will still like me. Maybe they’ll find my 6-foot-tall cardboard cutout of Harrison Ford funny rather than disturbing. Maybe they’ll think my collection of pinup posters and trinkets is cute rather than borderline obsessive. Maybe they’ll consider me being “hospital volunteer of the year” cool rather than geeky.

Or maybe I should just drive home alone.