Welcome Back, Class of 1983

My husband and I graduated from the same high school, he a year ahead of me. Because he is Normal--not an anti-social, Facebook-eschewing, couldn't-care-less-what-98%-of-my-high-school-class-is-doing hermit like me--he enjoys going to his reunions. And because I can occasionally be convinced to mingle with the Normals, I go with him. 

10 years was awful. Everyone was just the same, except they could legally drink (and did so to excess) and all called me by my sister's name. (That's a teeny-tiny pet peeve of mine.) 20 years was slightly better. People had kids and more life experiences, but they still talked an awful lot about the glory days of high school...and called me Amy. 

So when we heard from a friend that the 30th was coming up, I didn't want to go. And my husband did. 

If you watch baseball, you may be familiar with the term "playing under protest." That's the attitude I adopted toward this reunion. I didn't get a haircut. I didn't buy anything new to wear. I didn't try to lose five pounds, and, what's more, I didn't  worry about not trying to lose five pounds. (Even though, in all honesty, I could stand to lose five ten pounds.) 

Yeah, I'd go to his reunion. But I wouldn't enjoy it. (Side note: I am not normally this passive-aggressive. I don't think. Maybe I should ask.)

But, surprise surprise, I did have a good time. After three decades, it wasn't so much a high school reunion anymore. It was a gathering of old friends, who happened to attend the same high school, sharing stories about kids, divorces, jobs, even grandchildren. There were a lot of laughs, hugs, and handshakes. Yes, the weird ones were still kinda weird, the drinkers still drank, the talkers still talked. And talked. But most everyone seemed grounded, comfortable in their skin, older and definitely wiser. I was actually glad I went (shhh), and it was almost enough to convince me to go to my 30th next summer. We'll see.