I didn’t want to tell you this, but I was a bit nervous about going to my high school reunion. I mean, the only thing preventing it from being freshman year Howdy Dance all over again was the fact that this time around, I had a date.
I wanted to make an inconspicuous entrance, but as soon as I descended from the private jet*, my friend Karina started screaming and practically vaulted over the beer garden balcony to give me a hug. Then she whipped out the journal I’d given her twenty years ago and had me read the inscription I’d written in it. She made me feel welcome right away, and I’m very grateful for that.
You go to your twenty-year high school reunion hoping that at least one person will have had a sex change operation or show up with a mullet and a hunting vest, but this was not the case. I don’t know if it’s thanks to the reversal of the food pyramid or the fact that people are no longer doing drugs, but pretty much everyone who came looked good and seemed to be happy in their lives. It was heartening. When you’re line dancing with your old gang to R.E.M.’s “Stand” with a beer in one hand and a wedding ring on the other, you forget the ancient hurts and feel genuinely happy that everyone made it out okay.
Even the P-Dawg had a good time. On the drive back home the next day, he said, “You know, I feel like I went to my own high school reunion, only with different people.”
Which is great, because it means I won’t have to go to his.
*When I say “private jet”, I mean “hotel cab.”Subscribe to the blog. (It's free!)