This past weekend was my high school class reunion – Thirty Years.
That one
hurt.
I felt the first shock of this a few years ago. I was hanging out with some athletic friends so I
casually let it drop that I used to be able to swim 100 yards in 1:01 (as in
one minute and one second). At this
point, I might swim 100 yards in 1:30, if there was a shark on my tail. Of course, rather
than revel in past glories (which was my POINT), my friends had to "focus on the
now" and ask why I couldn’t swim that fast TODAY. So, I had to answer that my 1:01 time was “30
years ago, when I was 15.” Unfortunately,
that phrase, “thirty years ago, when I was fifteen….thirty years ago when I
was fifteen,” played over and over again in my head during the entire morning and for
the next several days until I was ready to shriek.
That was three years ago. Since then, I’m afraid I’ve gotten even older. The whole Thirty Year thing must
have been painful for everyone else too since out of a class of a few hundred students, only 80 people showed up and a handful of them were spouses. My own
husband missed my reunion, by the way.
He had a triathlon that Saturday in Richmond and another one the next day in
Baltimore. After we found out about the
reunion date, he hemmed and hawed for a full week before I put him out of his
misery and told him to go to the
races. This way, I got to torment him
about neglectfully missing my reunion (which I really enjoy), with the added
bonus that I knew I’d have a better time without him. He wouldn’t have known a single soul and I
would have been torn between talking to him vs. talking to my old friends. It was better this way. Shortly after I let it drop that he was not
coming, the spouses of two of my closest friends backed out as well. Things were coming along nicely.
The second obstacle to my stag night out was the problem
of extracting myself from my children. The
reunion was in my hometown, so I planned to leave them with Granny and Grandpa
for the evening. This should have been
easy. They LOVE their grandparents. But, the night of the reunion, my kids
suddenly got cold feet. I don’t know if
it was the unfamiliar town, the unfamiliar house or the phase of the moon, but
they sure didn’t let me go easily. I had
to promise to keep my cell phone ON, call as soon as I got to the banquet hall
and call again as I was driving home. You
would think I was leaving for an arctic expedition rather than a three hour
dinner, but I did manage to extract myself and drive, alone, to a Saturday
evening out with my girlfriends for the first time in….well, in a long time.
This was so much fun!
No wonder people go to dinner together!
I sat with my closest friends from high school and it was wonderful to
re-connect. The only damper on the
evening was that everyone looked so….old.
Most of the men I didn't remember anyway, but I remember my girlfriends and the sad truth is that we are all thirty years older and there's just no getting away from those subtle signs of aging. If you don’t believe me, ask the people
in Hollywood. They will back me up on
this one. If you’ve seen any recent
pictures of Meg Ryan, you’ll know what I am talking about—and bear in mind: SHE HAD THE SURGERY. It’s just a little shocking to see a roomful
of women that you knew once as bubbly eighteen-year-olds re-appear thirty years
later as bubbly forty-eight-year-olds. We may still be beautiful and fun to be around, but we are not still eighteen.
I saw a documentary once called, “Forever Fourteen” about
two girls who were abducted as teenagers by the same man. One was murdered and the other lived. The survivor wrote and produced the documentary. The point of the title was that the girl who was killed will be “Forever Fourteen.” No one can enjoy life with her or have memories of her beyond that
age. It’s one of those haunting
documentaries that I keep thinking back to when I ponder the progress of
life.
I realized as I drove back to my parents that, even without a death, memories of
my friends from high school were along the lines of “forever eighteen,” because
that is when I saw everyone last. Now,
thanks to the reunion, and that fact that life rudely goes on, new images, more along the lines of “forever
forty-eight” will be replacing the old ones.
That is, until 2023, when I’ll be facing “forever fifty-eight” and the
final years of all this alliteration. It only
gets better.
At this point, I was pretty much in the driveway and I could
hear the crying even without the phone.
I hung up and headed toward the door. All the kids circled around me as I walked in,
trying to touch me like I was some sort of a god and if they could only make
physical contact, all would be well. This is no small matter when you are talking
about eight kids.
My dad, who was
sitting in his chair, hiding behind a newspaper, looked up as we all swarmed
into the living room and said, “WELL, I Hope You’re Happy.”
This is now my new favorite thing to say when everything falls
to pieces.
The next morning, my husband sent
me a text. He finished eighth place in Richmond and third in Baltimore. After the Baltimore race, he went to Arlington National Cemetery to visit the gravesite of our friend,
Bruce. Every time he has a race near
there, he stops by and puts his metal from the race on Bruce’s gravestone.
My next thought was that "Bruce is forever forty-one." ...I won’t be complaining about class reunions anymore. The grey hairs
are much less painful than the gravestone.