For some wild and unexplainable reason I agreed to go. Even though I pledged I never would. That it wasn’t important to me. That you could drop wild badgers down my shorts and I would still resist.
Then a friend sent an email. It started out, “Alright guys it has been 20 years,” and went on to say he wanted to get “the crew back together.”
The venue? Tampa Prep’s 20th high school reunion for the class of 1991.
Class of 1991! Twenty years! High School! Prep!
There are so many things wrong with that one sentence. Could it have been 20 years already? That strange and alien time and place. That weird period of our lives — high school! Wasn’t it weird for all of us? Formative. Funky. Fun. Frightening. Foolish. Freshman.
Remember being a freshman? Pond scum had it easier. At least it never had a bottom locker, heavy Latin books raining down on its head. Pond scum never had to worry about being awkward or jumpy or detention or why you — no matter how hard you tried! — just couldn’t remember to zip up your fly. How hard is it to remember to zip up your fly!
All these years I told myself I didn’t want to go to relive it all at a reunion. And now with one email, that fortress wall I built to repel them crumbled.
I emailed my friend, “Yeah, sure, I’ll be there.”
… what have I done?!?
It’s this weekend — Saturday!
I’m struck by the reality that my generation’s high school anthem was pretty much R.E.M.’s, “It’s the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine).” Either that or the classic Salt-N-Pepa rap that burned into our brains this line: “Now push it real good!”
But R.E.M. seems slightly more apropos. A time when we were carefree, ignorant, yet somehow — we said! — all-knowing. We wore ridiculous clothes. Had bad haircuts — think stylized Brill-o pads. We strutted about like our less-than-royal hineys meant something to the world. We made more-than-royal asses of ourselves when talking to girls. Thought we were hot stuff. Thought lines like, “So, do firemen hose you down? ‘Cus you’re on fire. Youch!” sounded good.
We got beat up by a lot of girls. And guys. And just about anyone who couldn’t stand the sight of full-of-themselves, high-top-wearing high school kids whose brains weren’t fully formed.
Now I’m going back?
The reality has set in that I’ve committed myself. I’m dealing with all the irrational fears that come with reunions. Who will I see? What stories will be told? If there aren’t name tags, will people remember who I am? Would it be BETTER if people didn’t remember who I am? That way they can’t dig out old skeletons from my closet.
Should I just introduce myself like this: “You don’t remember me, mate?!? I’m Chuck! The foreign exchange student from New Zealand!” That might be good.
Do I owe anyone a large sum of money that is now due, with interest? Did I promise anyone that at our 20th high school reunion I would run through the city naked while conjugating Spanish verbs? Worse still, did I pledge to any high school rivals that we would finally settle our differences there … with pitchforks and switchblades? Maybe he’s spent the last 20 years in martial arts classes training for this big day!
Now I have to walk in like a jungle cat, ready to fight anyone who might pounce.
Yet, I’m going. Scared. A bit anxious. But grown up, too. Maybe that’s why I signed up. To show I’ve changed. Matured a bit. That I no longer strut or say remarkably idiotic things to girls. (Well, not as often, at least.) Most of all, that I’ve grown up. Maybe that’s the point of reunions.
That, and to settle old scores with rivals while using crude weapons. As the song says, “It’s the end of the world as we know it (and I feel fine).”