HIGH SCHOOL REUNION BLUES
I have the High School Reunion Blues. A girl, (yes, I persist in using that term even though my contemporaries and I are well past girlhood) my best friend from Elementary and High School, whom I haven’t seen in nineteen years, recently made contact with me through Classmates.com. This is a web site that makes its money from people’s prurient interest in former schoolmates. They encourage you to post, for free, a profile with just enough information to pique the interest of others. If you are lucky enough to find someone you might want to catch up with, you must join the site for five dollars a month in order to send or receive an e-mail. Up to now only the losers of the class of ‘65 have wanted to get in touch with me. Nobody that I cared about. I was delighted that Bev finally made contact. Even though it took her five years.
In her e-mail, the one I had to cough up fifteen dollars (it’s a three month minimum membership) to respond to, she said she noticed I lived in Massachusetts and wondered where. I proudly replied that I had moved to Martha’s Vineyard upon retiring. She seemed to be surprised and pleased, announcing she had been vacationing here for many years and would come again in August. (Was I overly suspicious to think she somehow found out where in Massachusetts I lived?) This explains my High School Reunion Blues.
When you communicate via e-mail you can delude yourself into feeling eighteen again. When you meet in person you can’t hide those extra twenty pounds or granny flaps, gray hair, false teeth, reading glasses--need I go on?
Ever since we agreed to meet I have been having a recurring nightmare that she will look exactly as she does in our yearbook and I will look--well--like I do. She will have no way of knowing that in the intervening years I have gained and lost thirty pounds, gone completely gray (which of course no one but my hairdresser knows) and given up dancing.
I keep reminding myself of all the things I’ve accomplished since High School. I graduated Summa Cum Laude from college, became a published writer, raised a daughter who has never been to prison, and managed to retire long before I was eligible for social security. It doesn’t help. Nothing short of Bev having varicose veins, rampant wrinkles and an aversion to exercise will help. (By the way, did you know that at any given time thirty-five percent of women in every health club in America are trying to get into shape for a High School Reunion?)
The only thing I have going for me is that I’m not a grandmother yet. Which is another thing that has me concerned. What will we talk about? Up until seven years ago Bev and I lived in the same community but never ran into each other. This leads me to believe we probably didn’t have much in common. She’ll undoubtedly want to talk about her grandchildren. Not me. I barely tolerated my own kid. I really don’t care for other people’s. They are always described as beautiful and brilliant. What I want to know is, to whom do all the dumb, ugly kids (and there are plenty of them) belong?
Bev did mention in one of her e-mails that she likes to travel. We could talk about that, I suppose, as long as it doesn’t turn into dueling trips. She’ll say Rome, I’ll counter with the Greek Isles. She’ll say Hawaii, I’ll respond Paris. I really hate to play “Can You Top This?”
Also don’t want to talk about dead parents or friends. I find that unpleasant. Don’t want to talk about classmates that became famous or wealthy either. Hmmm. The list of things I don’t want to discuss is becoming longer than the things I’m curious about. Maybe I shouldn’t have wasted my fifteen dollars. High School was far from the best time of my life and Bev’s impending visit is making me recollect things I’d prefer not to. I can only hope she feels the same.
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