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July 16, 1999/3 Av 5759, Vol. 51, No.41
Some eras not worth revisiting
TAMI BICKLEY
Staff Writer
The invitation I had been waiting a decade to receive arrived in the mail on May 3, 1999.
"Hello Class of 1989!" it read. "Come to the party you've all been waiting for. Meet with your long-lost high school friends on June 26 at your 10-year reunion!"
When I hear the words "high school," my mind reverts to the 1980s - an era I'd much rather forget than reminisce about. For me, it was a time marked by overly-moussed hair, heartaches, curfews, pop quizzes and fights with my parents every waking moment.
I doubt there is anyone on this planet who would consider high school the best four years of his/her life. In fact, for many people, myself included, they were the worst. So why are those struggles with stress, acne and endless disappointments shoved down our throats every 10 years (or even more frequently) by way of some upbeat reunion invitation?
As I tore open the envelope containing the invitation to my first such gathering, my heart began to race. Since I had a few weeks until my response card was due, I thought I'd take my time and weigh my options. After all, this would be my only chance in the next 10 years to see my 700 fellow graduates, none of whom I speak to anymore. But the thought of entering a room that for the first time in a decade was filled with the same people who witnessed me ride the rocky road of adolescence, began to seem more and more intimidating.
Did I really want to face the group of girls who saw me almost choke to death upon inhaling my first cigarette? Or the football players who applauded my performance when I tripped and fell down a flight of stairs with my books flying every which way? Or worse yet, my first boyfriend? No thanks.
The truth is, no matter how much you've accomplished since graduation day, going back means going back. No one cares if you've earned a Ph.D., where you live, if you're married, or how many kids you have.
In addition to the advice of my husband, who believes that high school reunions are money-making schemes and that attending them is a complete waste of time, a series of reunion-related thoughts and plans combined, resulting in a moment of clarity for me, thus abruptly ending my indecision.
It started with plans to lose a few pounds and get into shape. Then, I began obsessing over what I would wear to the reunion. The invitation said casual, but in Chicago (where I grew up), evening affairs are rarely casual.
I worried about what I would say to all my former friends. Would they think I had matured into an intelligent, sophisticated young woman? Or would they still see me as a gum-smacking, giggly, teenaged girl?
As June 26 neared, I felt an overwhelming need to be the best-looking, best-dressed, and most accomplished person among my former classmates. What I realized then was that those same feelings and insecurities that had consumed me when I was a high school student, and that I was so relieved to shed as an adult, were re-surfacing as a result of the upcoming reunion.
I returned the response card with "not attending" checked off, but I did send in my new address to be included in the alumni book. June 26 came and went, and although I was curious to hear how some people had progressed in their lives, for the most part, I was glad to have left that part of my history behind.
Last week, I received another interesting piece of mail. This one was from my old best friend, D.D., whom I hadn't spoken to in eight years. She wrote that she had been looking forward to seeing me, and was sad that I didn't show up for the reunion. She enclosed her phone number, and asked me to call her. I did so that evening, and we talked for nearly an hour about our old friends and acquaintances, what they were doing and where they were living. Then, she caught me off guard. "Remember back in high school when you told me how you couldn't wait for our reunion? Well, why didn't you go?" she asked.
She was referring to the day my senior year when I announced to her and a few other unsuspecting witnesses that I couldn't wait to arrive at our reunion in my chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. And upon exiting the vehicle, I would be flooded by requests for my autograph. Ha.
"Well, D.D.," I told her last week. "I don't have a Rolls Royce, let alone a chauffeur, and no one is banging my door down for my autograph."
"That's OK," she replied. "Maybe that will happen by the 20th reunion."
Maybe by the 20th reunion that sort of thing won't matter. I hope not.
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