My Reunion

Alpharetta, Ga. - scene of the crime.

"Your high school reunion? Aw, Mom — you HAVE to go!" said my 14-year-old daughter enthusiastically.

"Rent a Lexus!" 

I explained that no one there will care what I drive. That's only in the movies, sweetheart. I did, however, agree to a mother-daughter shopping trip, where a simple black linen sundress (youthful, but in no way trying hard) was met with her approval.

I was on the fence about attending my 20 and 25-year reunions, but didn't go, fretting about scheduling and 20 pounds. For my 30th, my weekend was miraculously clear, my children were old enough for me to take off spontaneously, and it didn't even occur to me to think about my appearance.

Why not go?

I arrived a little late, and although I admire the hard work and enthusiasm of our volunteer planners, it is comically cruel to have a reunion on the second floor.

I used the restroom as a delay tactic, and paused again, before entering the narrow doorway to the shadowed brick stairway.

The sounds of layered voices drew nearer, but I couldn't see anyone.

I felt like I was on an escalator, about to be delivered, solo, into the unknown.

Then there was the feeling of flushing heat. (Uh oh, am I getting sick? Oh. Wait. I'm nervous! Ha! Haven't felt this sensation in a while.)

I reached the top of the stairs and was thankfully swept up in a warm tide of greetings and hugs, so grateful to see people I knew right away because it set the tone for the rest of the night.

Some people are born to navigate events like this.

They are naturals. Self-appointed awkwardness minimizers. Ambassadors of inclusion. They peer intently and officiously at name tags, as if through a monocle, as people walk by. They then shout with recognition and wave them over.

They fold others into a nautilus of conversation where they can greet and drift away, move closer in and join, or simply hover, but still feel part of the group.

These people are doing God's work. There should be a Ted Talk on this particular skill.

Good with people or not, we are at a great age for a high school reunion. Our 40s come with wrinkles and headaches, both real and metaphorical. But they also come with the gift of a healthy dose of — ahem, DGAF — and, if we are lucky, and retain our vulnerability, a generous mellowing of soul that sees good and potential in everything.

It was a convivial blend of comfort in our own skin, nostalgia, and booze. (There was food over in the corner. No one seemed to pay much attention to it.) We seemed genuinely pleased to see one another, and so… uncomplicatedly happy, for a night, anyway.

After the reunion, a group of us moved to another bar and sat outside.

“Some people are born to navigate events like this. Self-appointed awkwardness minimizers. These people are doing God’s work. There should be a Ted Talk on this particular skill.”

We were loud.

We weren't the middle-aged people who murmured politely and wore sensible shoes. We were the ones who chased away people at nearby tables with our raucousness. We were rowdy. A successful kip-up was executed from cement.

Around 11 pm, I started to feel tired and sober (I'd had a drink hours before) and had a long drive the next day.

It was so chaotic that I opted for an Irish goodbye. No one would notice if I just slipped out. I was proud of this decision.

I'm an adult!

With self-confidence!

I do what I want!

The once-tiny town where we went to high school is now a busy suburban Main Street center of hip, fabulous restaurants, pubs, and places to be seen — and I was completely turned around. 

I walked out of the other door, took a right, and then another right. I thought this would lead to the parking lot. It did, but I didn't realize that the new bar we'd moved to was adjacent to that same parking lot. 

As I walked right past the crowd I'd just slipped away from, I wasn't sure if anyone would notice me or not, so I gave a small, awkward wave in their direction, and skittered on, head averted.

I giggled to myself about what a dork I still am and got into my sensible Toyota with a huge happy smile on my face, as the sound of my old friends' merriment spiraled out into the night air.