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What I learned at my 25th high school reunion (that I can remember)Apr 12 '05 (Updated Apr 15 '05) Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line Studying the yearbook is no way to prepare yourself for the reality of the present. Ask for directions to an open bar. And, bring a wingman.
“...youth is wasted on the young...” [Buy that man a beer.] Entering the room holding your twenty-fifth high school reunion is something like entering into a parallel universe. There’s the memory of yourself from high school and the reality of what you are now. The hopes and futures of the past have become the realities of the present: who you had hoped to be versus who you’ve become. The picture from the yearbook is either a stranger, a long-lost friend, a faint memory, or perhaps a Dorian Gray like apparition. (beer one) In entering my 25th reunion, I was expecting to see some old friends, some old memories, and, perhaps, some old crushes. The reality was something else. We were now old, older, and gone. The class of 1980 was missing some members. A vibrant athlete who had the proverbial world on a string in high school was no more; a victim of a work site accident, leaving behind a wife and 3 daughters, all at 42. A quiet girl with a sense of mischievousness to her smile was gone at 39 leaving behind a companion and a much too short life. (beer two) So there was a sense of sadness for the missing that colored the room—and also a sense of “where are they now?” as the reunion was sparsely attended. A class of about 400 was down to 70 or so attendees (including patient spouses and companions) 25 years later. [I guess the vast majority of people said “WTF?” when the invitation came.] The sense of fun and possibilities that permeated the 10 year reunion had been replaced in the intervening years by something else: middle age apathy or middle age regrets, not to mention children, divorces, job changes, and mortgages. Some things were unchanged however. The cliques of the past were momentarily reconfigured —jocks, nerds, burnouts, and inbetweeners—reconstituted at the buffet table. (beer three) Jock A was still a BMOC and let you know it. Jock B was still (apparently) an a-hole. Jock C was virtually the same guy in high school; his cockiness on the field now replaced by a confident good-natured love of fatherhood. There was also a sense of irony present. One classmate, known for his braininess and his assorted “chemical knowledge” was now a chemist. One rebel type was now a police officer and seemingly a model citizen. Any number of people had gained a bit of weight, lost some hair, and went a lot grayer, myself included. The children of the class of 1980 notably ranged from one-month to 23 years or so. At least one classmate was a grandparent. I was told (as one of the older parents there) that my daughter would keep me young. I can only hope. (beer four) I found myself not being remembered and not remembering people until after wards so my high school experience of “see that wall, be that wall” came back to me briefly. [Note to self: shave off the goatee. No one remembered you until they saw your nametag...and they could have just been polite.] But the brief lull of melancholy was replaced soon enough, rescued by the sight of a charming and self assured divorcee having one of those “it’s my reunion and damn it ... I look good” experiences. She was not a crush in high school; she may be a crush for middle age for she bridged the gap from high school to career, motherhood, divorce, and a new career with aplomb. Hers was a refreshing display of coping and flexibility winning the day. And, her memories of high school displayed a side of her I never knew. So here’s to late bloomers everywhere. (beer five) An actual crush of mine was revealed to have a “life partner” in middle age which just further illustrates just how bad I was (and still am) in deciphering the intentions and desires of the opposite sex. “Dude, she wasn’t blind to you, she was gay” screamed my 17 year old brain, reemerged and now quickly seizing the opportunity to perform open-heart surgery on a long forgotten pang. (beer six) “Why do people drift apart. Why didn’t we stay in touch? Man, I should have asked you out.” The reunion time came and went quickly and the after party at a local bar (beers seven and eight) reinforced the perils of overindulgence the next morning. So, yeah, I coped with my past by getting ripping drunk in the present. However, designated driver rules applied and I owe a lot to my wingman who some thought was my “life partner.” I pointed out we wore separate and distinct rings and showed my baby pictures of E. but I can’t be certain they believed me. In any event, when you have been friends for over 25 years some partnership is implied through osmosis, alcohol, and shared happiness/tragedies anyway. Here’s to wingmen everywhere. (floor) Overall, though it was fun, it was kind of depressing in that sort of “late night navel gazing after the bottle of red wine is gone and you’re playing [insert high school artist favorites here] albums” way. I have no answers for the resulting questions about the slippages of connection, or the emotional funk that I found myself in. I don’t particularly like to navel gaze, much less clean out the emotional belly button lint, but I did do it after wards. [My funk lasted about three days until my wife reminded me that the stripper and the Red Miata would have to wait until our daughter graduates college. Reality checks rarely bounce.] So the class of 1980 is getting old, older, and gone. Still, I can be reminded that a little bit of that high school kid remains. I can’t run a six minute mile now, but I can still fit into my high school jacket. I don’t remember algebra, geometry, or any of the other stuff that “I’ve never used in daily life” but I can still diagram a sentence if my life depends on it. Some high school lessons and teachers remain permanent in my memory. Some friends remain permanent in my heart, which is the way it should be. My advice. If a 25 year reunion lies in your future, studying the yearbook is no way to prepare yourself for the reality of the present. Ask for directions to an open bar. And, bring a wingman.  |
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