To Attend, Or Not To Attend, My 35th High School Reunion?

After attending my 25th high school reunion, at 43, I decided: Never. Again.

It was utterly humiliating on so many levels.

Never would I show up in my Old Navy body-hugging red sweater dress, my squat, fat-stuffed sausage of a figure bursting at the seams, despite the knit’s forgiving stretch.

Never would I subject myself to the hostile, insipid stares of long-forgotten, fringe social clingers-on the likes of gossipers, J– and K–.

Never would I force my poor, affable husband to try to socialize with a roomful of former privileged kids, most of whom attended college and with whom he has nothing in common.

Never would I listen or gyrate to the stale music of my classmate-turned-pseudo-deejay playing a mix of current pop and 80s music from her Apple i-pod over crappy speakers.

And never again would I talk about and share worn wallet-sized photos of my daughter with other, more successful parents scrolling through entire photo galleries on their fancy iPhones for flattering family pics.

Then there was Facebook, where all my former classmates were featured surrounded by their smiling families and fulfilling new friendships, traveling in foreign countries, attending hip theater events like Hamilton, and taking extended vacations to exotic destinations.

There was no room for my sadness or for my adult losses and aging failures at the reunion tables, where only success stories resided.

Why subject myself to this?

So when news of my 35th high school reunion was announced, I was reluctant to consider attending. 

First I examined my budget and determined that couldn’t afford to go. With my Squarespace business website renewal due and my 2003 Subaru in desperate need of all new brakes this fall, my limited monthly budget would not accommodate the cost of event attendance, much less the price of an overnight hotel room. 

It was embarrassing to be so damn poor, but then my dear friend (thank you, Anjana Thatte Berde) offered to help pitch in so I could consider attending. 

At first, even though I have always planned to repay my friend, I refused to accept her generous offers because my priorities and my pride stood in the way. 

Then I realized that not only did I have many fond memories from this time in my life, but the possibility of reconnecting with the friends I treasured from high school could be a way forward out of the isolating morass of my middle age into the familiar territory of our shared abundant joy. 

Sharing the abundant joy of my classmates? This sounds so fun and meaningful! But why, then, why was I filled with dread and trepidation at the prospect?

After all, the reunion itself is not about me; it’s about our class, the class of ‘87. It’s about all the things we did, and didn’t do, collectively. 

We have already lost a few cherished classmates and close friends to cancer, sickness, drugs, drowning accidents, and possible suicide. For some of us, this reunion may well be our last.

Besides, many of our children are now attending college and getting married themselves, making us mid-life empty-nesters. I most likely would have more things in common with my peers than I initially realized. 

And maybe some of my closest, dearest friends would be there to ground me, reinforcing who I still am, as much to myself, as to others.

But surely I had already understood this to be true?....

Why, then, was I still reluctant to attend?

Because just as every high school reunion is an exuberant celebration, every reunion is also a personal reckoning. 

A personal reckoning with vanity. With grey hairs and bald heads. With bulging bellies and extra weight. (With the music of the 80s being considered “The Oldies.”)

With personal losses and disappointments; with our successes and our failures; with devastating divorces and shiny, new romances; with illnesses, short and long-term; with friendships, lost and gained. With the ravages of time itself. With acceptance and regrets. 

But there is nothing like an old friend to remind us of who we once were, who we still are, and who we have the potential to become. 

With quick hellos and long goodbyes. With final goodbyes. Yes, with absence. 

Who among us is missing?

And yes, even with death.

My own personal reckoning is to confront my unfulfilled potential.

Fuck that. It’s never too late until it’s too late, am I right?

So, for all these reasons, I decided to join everyone from the Lincoln-Sudbury class of 1987 in revisiting the zeitgeist of the late 80s of our youth.

Thanks to the generosity of my dear old friend, Robin Espinola (whom I promise I will repay), I was given the opportunity to change my mind and attend this fall’s 35th high school reunion.