Like the sword of Damocles, my high school reunion is dangling above my head and ready to smite me at any moment.
A long, long, long time ago, I graduated from Chartiers Valley High School. Modesty prevents me from announcing the year which we graduated, but if you buried a piece of coal it would be a diamond by now.
I went from being a Chartiers Valley Colt to an old gray mare. I ain't what I used to be. Now, a bunch of chuckle-heads want to get together and reminisce about graduating from our illustrious alma mater.
I have never been to any of my reunions. As luck, or perhaps misfortune, would have it, I’ve been out of town for the twenty, ten and the five (touchdown!).
I am considering now attending this auspicious event. It’s being held in mid-November, around Thanksgiving weekend to accommodate the out-of-towners. So, I won’t have an excuse this year.
For a long time, I was listed as missing in the alumni guide. I wasn’t missing. I knew where I was. My former classmates, however, couldn’t track me down. Thanks to the miracle of Facebook, they found me. And you thought Mark Zuckerberg's worst deed was screwing over his friends!
A lot of my high school friends are looking forward to this party. They are cajoling me into attending. I can’t understand why. From my graduating class, I’m in touch with a fair amount of old friends. The way I see it; I already keep in touch with the ones I want to keep in touch with. Why should I get dressed up to see people I already see, or worse, get dressed up to see people I DON’T want to see?
I liked high school. It was fun. I don’t see the reason to look back at it. Yes, we’re all heavier, balder and grayer. I don’t want to stand around and talk about it.
Yes, I wish I was more successful. I wish I was skinnier. I want to rent a helicopter and fly in like Romy and Michelle. I want to wear a full on space suit like Peter Griffin. I, at the very least, want to rent a Lamborghini and pull up in style. I’d probably have to drive it around the block a few times, just to make sure everyone got a chance to see it.
Can I tell them I’m an astronaut/supermodel/spy? Can I tell them I invented Post-It notes, liquid paper and the Internet?
I am sure I wouldn’t be the only one to lie and/or suck in my gut. I don’t know why I would want to impress people I didn’t bother to keep in touch with in the first place! But there it is. Like the aforementioned mythical, dangling, sword, pre-smiting. I have a deep-seated need to impress near-strangers.
I expected to be a certain place in my life, own a big home and have an enviable career. There was a supposition in high school and unfinished promise: I was supposed to have the picket fence, two point-five children in the back of my Range Rover, and a big swimming pool in my back yard. I was supposed to be someone. A better someone.
I could be the guy who shows up who is completely comfortable with himself. The guy who doesn’t care he doesn’t have the right car, the right relationship, or the right amount of money in the bank. The guy that doesn’t care that he weighs more than the state of Rhode Island.
I could be that guy, but no one would ever believe it.
Anyone know where I can rent a Lamborghini cheap?