Last week, I was greeted with an email message from my high school 20-year reunion committee stating that the reunion had been canceled due to lack of interest.
Lack. Of interest.
And I'm not surprised. My high school class was never known for being on top of things. The reunion was scheduled to happen in less than two weeks and we had all been notified of the impending event last August. Lack of interest with ten whole months to plan, buy reunion tickets, take time off from work, book the flight, lose 20 pounds, get Botox, rent a convertible, rent a date, sign up for hair implants, and buy the perfect dress/suit. What this says to me is that most of the class of '90 would rather stay home, or go on summer beach vacations, or do anything at all than spend a weekend with people we either loved or hated two decades ago.
I have to admit, I was part of this "lack of interest." I had been stewing for ten months about whether to go and make a week of it. I haven't been back to my home state in four years and thought I would use the reunion to visit family, meet up with a couple of West Virginia bloggers, and see all my old haunts. But, I was also thinking of every possible excuse not to go. Whenever I would check the reunion site to see if anyone had updated their information, I would cringe over a new reunion attendee I'd rather not see.
I really didn't enjoy high school. My transition from junior high to high school was horrendous. I left one school with many friends and entered the other 90 days later practically friend-less. Fickle female teenagers can be such heartless bitches. By the time I'd regained my footing and new friendships, it was my senior year and all I wanted then was to graduate and get the hell out of Dodge.
One of my fellow class of '90 mates suggested we get the "cool" people together for a separate reunion, that we ignore the official activities and do our own thing. I considered that for about 24 hours, even compiled a list and sent it to her, then I shut it down. That would have made us no better than those little pricks who had ignored us and made our lives miserable 20 years ago.
I realize that it's entirely possible that most of these people, with whom I spent my formative years, have changed for the better. It's also entirely possible that had the reunion happened, and had I attended, I would have been miserable.
I'm thinking about visiting my home state this fall, driving through the mountains during the peak of autumn color. When I do, I'll probably email that small group of Black Eagles I cared about and who made those three years a smidge easier. We may gather at a local restaurant, huddled over a yearbook, and recalling all those wonderful and horrible moments that made up our teen years. No hundreds of dollars spent on clothes we had to hire a trainer (or plastic surgeon) to make fit or sports cars we rented to make false impressions, all just to gather in an overpriced hotel ballroom with a dry chicken dinner. Instead, maybe we'll wear our best-worn jeans and reminisce over cheap cups of coffee, all the while flashing each other with pictures of our kids.