I love Billy Joel. Can I just say that? I. LOVE. BILLY. Yes, he’s probably one of the fugliest men in the universe, but c’mon… talent like that can make up for a LOT of things. A LOT.
But I digress…
The senior class president of my high school finally let loose with the information that yes, we are in fact old farts, and it is now time for our 20th Reunion. On initial impact this news brings me great joy and happy memories. For others, it strikes terror into their now barely-beating hearts.
I offer you the thoughts of one incredibly badass classmate, DG:
“I am breaking out in a cold sweat, my heart is racing and I think my breakfast is on the verge of making its reappearance. It isn’t so much as what the passage of time has done to my appearance (we are all bound to have wrinkles, put on some weight, etc…) I still haven’t forgiven. It is incredible to look at 203 faces and not want a thing to do with many of them after 20 years.”
First, I am gobsmacked to learn this. Of all people I would never suspect her to feel like this! D is brilliant, well educated, way funnier than me, has a beautiful family and looks EXACTLY THE SAME as the day we graduated. Ok, except for maybe the hair. I’ll have to consult the yearbook.
Second, I am puzzled.
I had no idea that I’m not the only one high school was traumatic for!
I had no idea that high school sucked just as much for her as it did for me. In fact, I’m hearing from a lot of people, even the “cool” and “popular” ones, that they are nervous about seeing everyone. I was talking to Honey about it (who, coincdentally is also a member of our class and so my vote for when the reunion is should count twice – I’m just saying…) and he mentioned that now that the internet is EVERYWHERE, reunions are kind of going the way of the Dodo.
Yeah. He said that it’s easy to find people and what they’re up to these days. And I get that. But nothing beats seeing it live and in person! You can’t hug your monitor (without getting weird looks anyway), or laugh with your best girlfriends about the time you went to Garcia’s at 11 p.m. that one Friday night for the $5 all-you-can-eat taco bar & margaritas and played “Ice Ice Baby” on the jukebox over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over, well past the time the place shut down, just to irritate the rude, RUDE waitresses, unless you’re there! (Or maybe it was Achy Breaky Heart.)
Not that I ever did such a thing.
(You know who you are, even if you’re not on Facebook and don’t read this blog, and so do the other chicas who are and do!)
Thankfully, D has decided to don her big girl panties and show up at the party and hopefully all my other classmates will too.
Even the trauma inducing ones. Odds are, they feel like shit for what they did now that they’ve got kids of their own, and if they don’t then they’re sociopaths in which case you’re lucky you got out without them going all Jeffrey Dahmer on you!
Either way for me it’s a win-win.
I win because even though high school was horrid, my friends were not. I see them when I visit Utah regardless of any official reunion. They are still strong, amazing, beautiful women who value the time we shared during those formative years enough to meet up at the Training Table for some cheese fries and ultimate dipping sauce whenever I tumble through and relive the good times. Enough to occasionally comment on whatever is going on in our current lives on Facebook, and to send occasional messages of love and support through snail mail. Enough to blot out that terrific time of torture more formally known as “high school” for an evening or three so we can all be together in one place again, even the ones who’ve scattered to the wind like me and left the state.
I win because even though the growth is relatively new, I’m getting better at loving my fellow man just because we exist on this big lonely planet together. My wounds are still raw, but poor mental health has its (extremely few) benefits. I’ve learned to see just how short time is and how precious little of it we have. Far too little to squander on wrongs that will never be righted. I find that we are much more important in our own minds than in the minds of others, and the power that we give to our memories is only there until we take it back and put it to good use elsewhere.
I win because I say it. So let it be written, so let it be done. The end.