Oh my God, I am old; or, my high school reunion looms

My dad ambushed me today on our daily carpool to work. He had a piece of mail that was sent to my parents’ house with no return address, no outer markings, nothing. I expected it was some sort of junk mail or some random letter from a relative who didn’t have my address. Not quite. It was an invite to my 10-year high school reunion. All black and gold and xeroxed 8.5 by 11 trauma inducing inches of it.

Yes, it appears I’ve been out of high school for ten years. My first reaction, after “Oh my f*ingmother God” and “I’m going to be the one that got fat” and “I wonder if any of The Mikes are still cute” and “and single,” was “there must be a mistake; it’s not been that long.” I was convinced that the person in charge of this even was one of the people once in remedial math (known in my high school as “normal level math”) and they just couldn’t properly add the years. But I guess adding 10 is pretty simple and no matter how many times I tried to make it come out to next year, it just wouldn’t work. It’s been a decade. Almost a third of my life. Time to reunion. Depressing.

I went to a school popularly referred to as Uppity Arlington. It is located in the “Golden Ghetto” and we boast famous alums like Wendy (as in The Wendy with the red pig tails and hamburgers), Jack Nicholas, and RJD2 (so not everybody has heard of him, but he’s gonna be big, I tell you). For years, my high school has unofficially prided itself on having 38,916,406,510,040,016,546 varsity sports, a Senior Men’s Club (aka the people who could get kegs) and a proud history of Senior Pranks (like the VM Beetle in the main hallway or the time they ran a mild electric current through the freshmen hall lockers). Officially, it has boasted strong academics, killer vicious lacrosse players, and money.

My feelings on high school are mixed. By no means do I look at those years as the best in my life. Between the bad hair, sporting a refined version of The Grunge Look, and driving The Shitmobile, I was not High School Hot Stuff. But it also wasn’t that bad. I was smart in a school where intelligence was all right, and even valued. I had friends and a boyfriend and The Shitmobile. There were some of the funniest moments of my life during those four years. I had my first kiss and my first make out session and my first Toilet Papering: all of which I look back on fondly. Despite all of that, the thought of going back fills me with the need to upchuck.

I think the nauseau stems from what I imagine conversations to be at this event. For example:

Other Person: I am a successful brainiac working as a junior level VP at a Fortune One Company, with a trophy (person of the opposite sex), a dog, and a metabolism which still allows me to eat excessive Chipotle without an expanding butt. What about you?
Me: *drool*
Other Person: You remember my friend, (insert Mike for a male/Jen for a female). (He/She) was the head (of the football and lacrosse teams/cheerleader and lacrosse captain). Today, (he/she) has quabillioned the family fortune through a savvy investment in Spanx Lycra Suck It In Pants {which I will be wearing in order to suck some of it in} and of course, you know (he/she) is dating that famous celebrity. You know, Tom Cruise. *Laughs in the non-laughy way rich people have*
Me: *drool*
Other Person: It’s been so swell to see you. {the real message being, You Are Not As Good As I Am So There!}
Me: *hurl myself off of the 4 story building while praying for a quick death*

Yes, I anticipate awkwardness with a side of shame. No wonder I am not looking forward to this. Oh, and did I mention it is being held at Frog, Bear and Wild Whore, I mean, Boar?


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: