Ten years after graduating from high school, I have gained 40 pounds, two children, a spouse, a mortgage, a severe coffee addiction and a layer of confidence that comes only when you’re happy with where you are in life.
Ha, that bubble burst when invites to the reunion were sent out.
This horror movie is set for this summer, and now my confidence seems to be disintegrating faster than Rick Santorum’s hopes of becoming the nominee.
Running the numbers, it will probably cost me a house payment, because of all of the work needing to be done in hopes of making me presentable to the Northridge High School Class of 2002.
Here’s hoping it will be held at Walmart so I can wear yoga pants and a sweat shirt.
Back and forth, back and forth, my mind goes as I decide whether or not I have the guts to show. What is it about revisiting the past that makes us question whether our present is fulfilling enough to talk about amongst people we didn’t particularly like to start with?
My years at NHS were really nothing to complain about. I wasn’t bullied, I wasn’t awkward (despite being on the debate team). In fact, I came out of high school with some of the best friends I could imagine — and my husband.
My mother, grandmother, in-laws and basically any person over the age of 40 has advised me to go, claiming it’s great to catch up with those your own age, but they’re missing the Facebook element. I echo the sentiments of many when I say that all of those I want to catch up with, stalk, judge, are a mere click away. Those I want to forget, I simple click “reject” with a satisfied grin.
I fear an attitude like that only shows I haven’t evolved past the high school mentality of insecurity, attitude and pettiness; maybe I’m not as comfortable with my life as I thought weeks ago, before realizing past deeds come to collect in the end.
When asking who of my Class of ’02 friends are attending, the most common response was “I’m so over high school,” which I think is a sure sign that they’re not.
My high school friend Carolynn Sutton Judd said it best, “Suck it up, put on your big-kid pants and come socialize.”
In the end, curiosity will win out. My class has your stay-at-home moms (like me), lawyers, dentists and doctors, but we also have an NFL star, Dan Coats; a Jazz cheerleader, Brindie McCleary Garner; a criminologist, Monica Guzman; a war hero, Jeff Benson; a real rocket scientist, my husband; and a number of successful entrepreneurs, Camille Adamson Beckstrand, Rand Sandall and Larry Turcotte.
I want to hear their stories and the hundreds of others lived by my fellow classmates. We all lived through the naïve years of high school and got our asses kicked by real life. Why not share our battle wounds?
So in a few months, I plan on slipping into my full-body Spanx, getting the best full-coverage bra to disguise my “mom boobs,” slapping on inches of makeup, and taking a deep breath before stepping out the door to my 10-year reunion.
And, if I can do it, I triple-dog-dare my fellow Northridge Class of 2002 Knights to put on their big-kid pants and join me in hopes of making it a party where we toast to 10 more years. It seems silly to fear the past when we have a whole lot of future left to create.
Plus, you can always lie and say you invented Post-its.
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