Realization Nation

I don't remember high school. The space reserved for my high school memories was long ago filled with vats of bourbon, tequila, and wine. Anything that didn't immediately float to the top drowned a dismal and dark death.

This past weekend, as I headed to my 25th high school reunion, I briefly considered claiming I had suffered a head injury in order to avoid those blank moments while someone reminisced at me about something we did at the mall or during math class. And, I really wanted to avoid sneaking a peak at someone's name tag when they took a sip of their drink and looked over my shoulder to search for someone more engaging to talk to.

I'll admit I was a little angsty leading up to the event in the "what should I wear, aw nuts I didn't pack anything, am I successful?" kind of way, not in the "I need to get my teeth whitened and visit a tanning salon after I finish my fasting diet" kind of way. But, angst is angst. I did have a fleeting moment where I realized I would probably be one of the top 10 fattest people in the room. Did it bother me? Yes. Did I plan to do anything about it? No.

Prior to heading over to the school cafeteria where a cash bar, some '80s music, and a catered buffet awaited, I mentioned to my friend Amy, with whom I was attending the reunion, that I didn't remember there being cliques or factions in high school. In fact, if you had held a gun to my head, I would have crapped my pants because I'm scared of guns, but also I wouldn't have been able to name a single "popular kid" from school. I just didn't know who they were.

When we arrived at the party, I felt some anxiety--I'm not embarrassed to admit I asked Amy to hold my hand--but for the most part, I was fine. Could use a cocktail, but otherwise fine. I chatted with people about how they're doing, what they're doing, where they're living, and was stumped when someone asked me, "What do you do for a living?"

Why hadn't I worked this out in my head? I went through all the ways I see myself as successful. I love my husband. I love my friends. I live a happy life. But, in normal yet awkward social gatherings, none of that makes a difference.  I was able to answer only one question with confidence, and then I was lost.

Where do you live?

In Maine!

Where in Maine? 

Oh. Ummm.... I live...ummm... I guess I live on the coast in the summer and then in the mountains in the winter....

What do you do?

Ummm.... I'm a writer?

Who do you write for?

Ummm.....I write boating....stuff...for...ummm...boating magazines and people who work in the boating....industry? And I do some communications and PR at a ski resort? I do some PR for some boating clients, too...yes.

So, yeah. A "PR" person talked like that. I was about as credible as a woman with huge boobs, bleached white teeth, and no body fat. Bitch, please.

Eventually, when the question would come up, I would simply say, "I...don't...know, frankly." That usually ended the conversation quickly enough to fill my cup with more bourbon so I could discover more things about my friends and myself that I had simply forgotten or ignored.

It was a night of realizations more than remembrances. Although I knew my high-school boyfriend was smart, it was an absolute treat to realize he is also very sweet. I was delighted to realize my best friend (who wasn't my best friend senior year and I can't remember why) had become a beautiful, successful, interesting woman. And, I watched with pleasure as my very crowd-anxious old friend walked into the room with his wonderfully supportive and kind husband and took that room over; even though he didn't realize how happy every single person was to see him, I realized how happy everyone was to see him--except one person who didn't hug him, but whatever. Popular kids are asses sometimes.

band practice with Bill Cosby's sweater

Which brings me to the popular kids. As it turns out, there were popular kids in high school and let me be very clear: I was not one of them. But, the truth is, I never noticed because I was both completely self-absorbed and 100% a snob.

I had no idea.

totally rocking the stripes as a drama club officer

By the end of the evening, however, I realized I never wanted to hang out with those kids. I'm sure they were (and are) nice and fun and interesting, but I just didn't want to.

But, I always felt like I should want to. Hence a very oddly tortured high school existence. As a 43...44? How old am I? As a 40-something woman with too much back fat, terrible hair, and disgustingly puffy eyes, I can discern between what I want and what other people want. As a teenager with the occasional pimple, very thick hair, and a 14-inch waist (I'm not even kidding with that fact; I still think back on that and shake my head at my love of french fries), I knew only that I had to live to some specific standard of popularity and getting in with the kids who were skipping class to go get a Chilly Willy was very important.

For whatever reason, I do remember some kids getting grounded for getting Chilly Willies, and though I had no desire to be part of what they were doing, I wanted the inside story and I wanted my questions answered. For instance, what the hell is a Chilly Willy? Is it a real thing? Is it a metaphor?

But otherwise I just wanted to be left alone. But I wanted to fit in. But I didn't want to talk to anyone. And why did I feel like I needed the approval of a bunch of people who spent their Friday nights having more fun that I was having? How did I even know they were having more fun?

knob-jiggling zombies

At one point in the evening, high-school boyfriend, disgustingly awesome Amy, and I wandered the halls of our old school. High-school boyfriend (I'm just going to refer to him as HSB now) was jiggling the doorknobs (not a metaphor) to all the classrooms until eventually we found an unlocked classroom, flipped on the light, and stood around--nostalgic and a little freaked out. (I'm talking about me. I can't speak for my pals.)

Within moments, a crowd of others walked through the classroom door. I was surprised. Where did they come from? Couldn't they find their own room? Why were they in here with the three of us?

"I guess I'm glad those guys came in here," I said. "But now I want them to leave."

HSB laughed. "You haven't changed a bit since high school."

I'm blurring out her face b/c
I didn't ask her permission to post this image. She's
actually quite pretty.

The photo to the left, which I totally stole from this woman's Facebook page because it made me laugh, is exactly how I think high school went. That's me in the black sweater. I sat in the back, laughing with my friends while the more popular and significantly prettier girls held everything together, all of us oblivious to one another, but I suspect pretty girls more oblivious to me.

God, I love this picture. I blurred out her face, but I can assure you, she is really pretty. I don't want her to be upset that I posted an image of her in here without her permission, though.

Another bit of trivia, which came as news to me, was that I had written a large chunk of the yearbook copy. (Our yearbook was called "The Lance." I'm going to let you allow that to sink in for a moment. Our yearbook was called...The Lance.)

Anyway, my byline is everywhere. According to Amy, that over-achieving wench who was in all the honors classes and was editor-in-chief of the yearbook and is now a partner at a law firm, I must have been on the yearbook staff.

No...no, I was certain that I wasn't. I don't remember much, but I think I would have remembered that. A quick flip through the old yearbook and my objections were confirmed. I wasn't on the staff. I wrote those pieces as a free agent. Amy laughed.

"Even then, you really wouldn't commit to anything."

I drove back to my world of freelance writing and seasonal jobs with the oddly comforting realization that, other than my ever-increasing waist size, nothing has really changed. Somehow, through it all, I've remained. Uncommitted, unintentionally snobbish, and absolutely aware that someone, somewhere, is having much more fun than I am.