My fifteen-year high school class reunion is next month. Fifteen years. My word; I really don't feel old enough for that. Shouldn't I have Mom-hair and be wearing comfort sandals by this point? Oh. Right. Many of the moms I know have hipper hair than I do, and I am unshakably in love with my disgustingly worn-out Birkenstocks. Plus, I just said "My word." Point taken.
In any case, I will not be going to the reunion. I have attended exactly one of my reunions thus far: the five year, and based on that one experience, I don't feel I'll be missing anything if I skip every remaining one. True, few things in life are as pointless as a five-year high school reunion, so I suppose I didn't really expect a huge turnout, and true, we did always have a rather small and extremely apathetic class. You know how at pep rallies, each class gathers in the bleachers and takes its turn shouting out a cheer in unison? (That wasn't just at my school, was it? You guys did that too?) Anyway, more than once, my class's section of the bleachers was entirely silent for our turn. Silent. We're not big on participation in the class of '92.
The night of our five-year reunion, the Class of 1947 was gathered in another room at the same supper club, celebrating their 50-year reunion. The cook who my friend Dale and I both remembered from our days as dishwashers at that restaurant informed us that they had more alumni in attendance than we did. He was embarrassed on our behalf; I was actually amused at how well in keeping with our class's history our meager turnout was.
I can't imagine the crowd at the 15-year reunion will be much bigger than the one at the five-year, and I have an even harder time imagining that any of the very few people I would actually enjoy catching up with again will decide to be there. Besides that, I prefer surprise one-on-one encounters with old high school friends anyway... like when I ran into my formerly good friend at the Andrew Bird show, or when I saw my first maybe-boyfriend working in the emergency room when my dad had a minor stroke.*
Not only am I not going to the reunion, but I am being doubly standoffish and nonparticipatory and not filling out the "Directory Questionnaire" that the reunion organizers sent me. It's not that I am above complying with a simple and painless request, but I truly have a hard time believing that any of my former classmates would care about my answers to these questions any more than I care about theirs. I mean, really...
Name: Stefanie [LastName]
_x_ Sometimes in my pretend life
If yes, name of [sometimes] spouse: Paul Rudd. (You may have heard of him.)
Number of years married: Oh, several, off and on. With a love like ours, it's hard to keep track.
_x_ Do plants and dust-bunnies count?
Occupation(s): Writing things that no one reads.
(Note: I love the parenthetical inclusion of the plural, by the way. It is "fantastic" to work three jobs, after all. "Uniquely American", isn't it?)
Hobbies: Knitting, reading, drinking, spending time with friends real and imaginary, burning through my Netflix list, and posting fascinating details about myself on the Internet.
Future Plans: More knitting, more reading, most certainly more drinking, more friendships and movies, and inevitably more oversharing on the Internet.
Most Memorable Moment from High School: Oh, how to choose just one... The time the love of my 14-year-old life kissed my best friend right in front of me? The time I assembled a motley crew of sophomore girls who didn't like each other (or me) for a Sweet 16 rollerskating party? How about when Mr. Linnabary announced to my entire gym class that I was a lousy doubles partner? Or when I asked the love of my 17-year-old life to the prom and he responded, "Can I say maybe?" Oh no; I've got it--the time my supposed friend told our Economics teacher that I thought he was insufferably rude, and when he confronted me about it, I backpedaled by trying to contrast him with our much friendlier History teacher, who as a result probably still thinks I had a crush on him. (I did not. No sir.) Good times.
Biggest Accomplishment Since Graduation: Um, I suppose "moving out of that town" would be too harsh? Indeed, it would be. It is actually a fine place if you like small-town life, and I know several very nice and smart people who still live there. So, uh, I guess I'll go with "Bought my own house"? "Graduated from college"? "Went to Europe"? "Finally fell in (and unfortunately also out of) love"? "Mastered the perfect chocolate chip cookie"? I could go in all sort of directions with this, I guess.
Most Embarrassing Moment in High School: I actually have several I'd rather not relive, and nearly all of them involve gym class. Andy C. might actually still have a bump on his head from where I pegged him with a softball, and I'm pretty sure I've not picked up a racket of any kind since the 11th grade.
One Thing That Your Classmates Do Not Know About You: Even in light of the extra ten pounds I've been carrying lately, I am still thinner and weigh less than I did in high school. Suck it, Amy Westermeyer.**
Would you be interested in working with the 20th year reunion committee?
_x_ Hell no.
So. I will not be sending that in, and I will not be paying $6.50 for a booklet containing the answers likely only seven other people sent in (apathetic and non-participatory class, remember?). Also, I will not be enjoying chicken and ham ("plus fixings") catered by the local Piggly Wiggly. And finally, perhaps most importantly, I will not be spending an evening wearing a name tag undoubtedly bearing this picture. No, I will save that for the Internet, of course.
* He's fine... or, as fine as the crazy old man he's become can be, anyway.
** There actually was no Amy Westermeyer in my class, but since I'd rather none of my former classmates vanity-Google their way here, I am creating a hybrid name from two prom court bitches I harbor particularly ill memories of. Kristen Kamman or Jody Dickrell would work equally well here.