November 13th, 2005
After my 10th high school reunion, I vowed to never go to my 20th, 30th, 40th, etc. because I didn't like the posing, wanking, and general high-tension impression-fest that went on. You can't win a pissing match, and you always come away smelling of piss.
So, a few months ago, when I heard that my 20th reunion was upcoming, and would I please submit $20.00 ASAP so that I could guarantee myself a spot in heaven, I thought twice about it: Did I really want to go and endure a few hours of stress? Was it worth it ... even once a decade?
But, inevitably, my cheque got mailed and my name got added to the list of attendees ... but not without trepidation. I know I was not alone in my reluctance because there were a few people who, despite living just a few blocks away from the location, didn't come. There were even a few folks who said they would come, but didn't. A friend of mine didn't want to come, but I showed up in his driveway and practically (almost literally) dragged him out of his comfy chair where he'd settled down to watch some obscure antisocial movie (his favourite kind, go figure), and we went together. (He thinks it was just to drag him out of his shell, but it was also for my own sanity; I was afraid I'd end up standing alone in a corner and drinking too much.)
Anyhow, on the short drive, I checked my feelings and was surprised to find that I was a lot more settled than I thought I'd be. I looked forward to seeing who had a pot-belly, who had grey hair, who had no hair at all, and who wore the "Kiss me, I'm Irish" T-shirt and lampshade hat.
That relaxed feeling pervaded the entire evening—not because of my own sudden settled feelings and lack of competitiveness, but because those sentiments were shared by nearly everyone else there. Holy mature ivy-covered self-respecting people, Batman!
There was only one little clique-ish brigade of factory-standard bottle-blondes standing in a circle trading hair-dying tips and barbs about us geeks while simultaneously bragging about their husbands' salaries (and probably schlong sizes), but, for the most part, the maturity level was just about where it should be for a bunch of people in their mid-to-late 30s.
So I ended up meeting the bulk of my grad class ... certainly most of the people I would have wanted to meet anyway. And I didn't care that I don't have a million dollar house on a beach, or a 28-inch waist, or a Porsche in the parking lot. I didn't care, and nearly nobody else cared either. It was just a bunch of old acquaintances getting together to drink, shoot the shit, and really, genuinely, share our generation's trials and tribulations.
(And listen to five hours of that crappy '80s music.)
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