This past weekend was my 20 year high school reunion. TWENTY. I cannot even begin to fathom the insanity of that number. When I went to my parents 20 year reunion, I mostly remember rooms full of old people. <sob>
No one was more shocked than I was when I walked in, considering I have spent the last 19 years swearing up and down I would never attend such an event. Facebook changed that a little bit. I realized I liked seeing where people ended up. I liked touching bases with old friends, and seeing that they are happy and doing well. I bucked up my courage and bought the tickets. In the end, I am glad I did.
The first night was a happy hour. Trenda, Bernice, and I went together. Just like Prom our Senior year, we hung out for a little while and then ran off to hang out together. There was something really, really comforting and safe about being tucked away in a booth at Trudy’s, briefly casting off the mantle of Wife, Mother, Worker Bee, and just laughing our (slightly tipsy, in my case) asses off. We need to make more time to do that with each other. I don’t see Trenda or Bernice much these days, but I mean to remedy that. There is something infinitely valuable about touching base with the friends that hold your history, you know? All our conversations were shortcuts — no explanation necessary. It was divine.
The formal event was the next night. I was shocked at how suddenly I transformed right back into, well, ME. High School Me, that is. Awkward, uncomfortable, shy, self concious. I felt all of 17, but not in the good ways. I was astounded that everyone else seemed to have grown up. I have the trappings, I have certainly earned my grown up wings, and there are days I feel downright O.L.D., but once I walked in I felt like a total fake adult.
The reality is, everyone was so much the same. Everyone looked really good – not an old person in sight. God Bless sunscreen and advances in skin care. The groups were still the same – popular girls were still popular, atheletes were still entitled (just a little thicker and balder), the Dreamboat was still a Dreamboat (if you are reading this, I know you made the extra click!), and my friends were still, blessedly, my friends. 
