So I attended my 20th high school reunion on Friday after all.
I returned yesterday and had an hour to relax a smidge before meeting people for dinner and a meeting (the new dinner and a movie, don'tcha know), returning home and crashing out really early. Today all my grandiose plans crumbled into cramps on the couch. I read a book, I read two David Foster Wallace short stories online, I talked to my friend in London. And my girl G called and was a bit disappointed that my account of the reunion was so cynical. I think she wanted me to have had a great time. I think that I was open to having a great time, but that a great time just wasn't possible with people so completely different than people I fill my life with these days.
So… a written account. I'm not sure I'm up for it today but let's see what happens, shall we?
First, though, the back story. My friend Jennifer asked me to attend with her about a month ago, and I said no. Put it out of my head. We talked again this week, and she told me that her plans were to go to Columbia Friday afternoon and return Saturday afternoon. I started to think that the road trip part with her sounded fun, and it would be fun to make a quick visit to my family and have a partial weekend home as well. The real factor, of course, was the actual reunion. I agonized over the situation, and finally decided to attend Thursday. I just didn't want to be a fucking coward.
Let me explain the back back story. I attended a private school. There were 72 in my graduating class, and I think about forty-something of us had attended all grades 1-12. Out of the 72 there was a central clique of about 25 who ran everything. Cheerleading, student council, beauty pageants, homecoming, honor society, pep clubs, sports, whatever… this central group (and a supporting group of 10-15 who were semi-popular and intermittently included) ran everything. My friends and I did not exist. We were not visible. None of these 35-40 talked to us except to be mean to us. Casual cruelty about my hair, my clothes, my glasses, my, um, very existence. If we dared to try to join activities we were efficiently put back in our places. We quickly retreated into the safety of chorus where we were relatively safe.
It was only this weekend that I realized how scarred all of us were, meaning my friends as well and not just me. In retrospect, I wish we had figured out sooner that we just weren't going to make into the rarefied atmosphere of the class kings and queens and just made more of our own fun. That's hard to know, though, when all you want in life was to be included into what everyone is told would be the quote unquote best fucking years of our lives. Incidentally, if that was true, I would have shot myself by now.
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It's now Tuesday. I think I needed a couple of days to absorb. The funny thing is that I am having the oddest experience: I can't remember big chunks of Friday night. It's like I was drunk, but… I wasn't.
Overall, I'm glad I went. It was really great to re-friend my old friends. Jennifer and I really reconnected, and I was surprised that though different we were able to talk about our lives and shoot the shit. 'Cause usually I have a hard time relating to people not of my tribe unless related to me by blood, and sometimes not even then. So, yay.
Anyway, the reunion itself: y'all, walking in that house was one of the hardest things I've ever done and I'm not exaggerating, unfortunately. I was all pins and needles. I didn't know what to expect and I didn't have any desired outcomes. I was just there to, I don't know, rip open the closet door and look at the monsters.
So, all the girls squealed when we came in, gave us hugs and one line of conversation and then proceeded to ignore us (mostly) in lieu of dancing to 80s tunes and reliving their glory days. In limited conversation I determined that they are all still best friends and all their kids go to the school now. All the girls had southern-lady hair and are all probably in the Junior League. Hanging as party decorations (the house was pretty, though decorated in Early Duck) were every t-shirt ever made and all twelve of our yearbooks and saved prom decorations (seriously) and class wills… stuff I got rid of approximately five seconds after graduation if I ever had it at all. They were reliving their glorious high school years. I was in a post-traumatic stress disorder induced flashback. Which, I'm kinda not joking about: I really am blanking out part of the evening and it was so surreal that I wonder.
So, yeah, I talked to almost everyone for literally a minute or two. I talked to a few people for longer and enjoyed maybe two of the conversations. One being the only other liberal at the party and I think she was excited as me to find a kindred spirit in a strange, strange land. I talked to the guys more than the girls. One of the guys totally gave me a dismissive smirk, which, seriously? Dude, you're wearing your old football jersey over your paunch — without irony — and you're smirking at ME?? I know I looked odd in their insular world since I look more like New York (well, not as much as I did) than Columbia so I'm the freak, proudly.
I kept the bitter snark to a minimum ("I can't hide my Hammond pride, whoo!" "I can") and didn't try to impress anyone 'cause I didn't care enough (seriously, I think my life is awesome but it's hard to convey in a sound bite and I didn't care to try). So, all in all, a success. Whatevs. It was… interesting. Oh, and I'm sure that a picture will be sent out at some point and I will post it for everyone's enjoyment.
Wankers. Sorry, just had to get in one more dig. :) Oh, wait, one more: every man there had on pleated khakis with a polo shirt or an oxford. The only picture I took was of a line of good southern gentlemen in their republican fucking casual-wear uniform.
I am glad I went, seriously. I don't know why, but I am.
