Helplessly Hoping, not the song.

For the past few months the reunion page has been getting more and more hits on Facebook.  I check it out often, seeing posts by people who are planning on going, those reaching out for info on long lost friends and the general banter between people who have kept in touch over the last 4 decades.  I have not kept in touch with many of my high school classmates, even those who swore under their senior picture that we would always be friends and our bond was too strong to break.  I did have the good fortune a year ago to share a great brunch with 3 girls from school, and it may have been the only time the four of us did anything social together.  It was wonderful and I am grateful to Bonnie, Laurie and Barbara for the gift of that day. A brunch with just a few people is one thing, but this is totally different. 

As the party gets closer I get more nervous.  I really want to go and have committed to being there.  I sent in the money.  I even think I know what I am going to wear!  In the back of my mind, however, is the nagging thought of being on the outside looking in; becoming, once again, the awkward person I was back then, not having one hundredth of the self knowledge that I have now. 

When I tell my current friends that this occasion is coming up most say the same thing, that they don't do reunions.  They loathe them, actually, and would rather eat worms than go and see the people that they spent four years with in high school. 

Not encouraging.

In August I took a little tour of Clarkstown High School. I walked through the front doors and remembered where the library is, where the attendance office and auditorium are, where my locker was and wandered in an about for a while.  I walked into the gym and looked up at the names on the far wall of the stellar athletes who played there.  I knew exactly how to get to the annex and peeked into the girls room that now is smoke free.  It felt good to be there. Good to have flashbacks to the days when our football Saturdays were littered with tiny bits of IBM punch card confetti, purple and gold was worn proudly together, corsages with bubble gum adorned us on our Sweet 16th birthdays and we turned our class rings 72 times! I remember our long hair on both boys and girls, our hippyish ways, earth shoes and faded jeans, our huge class and the crushes we all had.  I remember falling in love with James Taylor and his songs, and gazing lovingly at his picture on the Sweet Baby James album in the cafeteria.  I still place my hands on the home keys of my keyboard (asdf semi lkj) and remember driver's ed in-car antics and the senior breakfast. Whenever I hear the song "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Good-bye" it reminds me of an amazing basketball season!  I remember the bright yellow halter top dress I wore to the senior dinner and the great friends I went with! and the Pub, of course.

None of that makes me less nervous because even though I am not that awkward girl anymore she lives on in my memory.  I still have to walk into that room in a few weeks with my short hair that is more white than brown, and share my very ordinary (but pretty wonderful) life of the past 40 years with people who I would not know if I ran into them on the street and may never have hung out with all those years ago. Yes, it is giving me ajeda even as I write this! but, in a good way, I think.

So, class of 1972, I am counting on you all to remember that I will have a million butterflies in my stomach, and that this is not going to be easy.  I promise, if you remember this about me, I will return the favor and remember that you may also be a bit jittery.  See you in October.