Romantic Life Lessons, Shameless Promotion

It’s Happening: My 30th High School Reunion

mulletIn three weeks, groan, I’m attending my high school reunion. Let me muster the energy to drag my fabulous self to what can only be an unnecessary trip down memory lane. I am so over that.

Lie, lie, lie! I’m not even close to being over it! This eagerness must be palpable because somehow, I wound up on the planning committee and–wait for it–amassing enough 80s music to last 3 hours. I love the build-up, the preparations–emotional and wardrobial (that’s a word)–and the blinding nostalgia. How could you not want to re-live your painful adolescence?

In the spirit of reunions, let me revisit my reunions. Each one has a flavor.

My 5th Reunion: Um, I don’t attend this one because life is too traumatizing. See chapter 4 of my book, Romance Is My Day Job. I call this flavor “gum stain on the subway platform” because it is just that icky.

The 10th: It takes me months to pick out this purple gauzy dress and chunky patent leather heels. The hair is everywhere. Classmates are marrying and having babies, like my best friend Nici. Isn’t 27 too young for this? I breathe into paper bags over the idea that I could embark on such adult rites of passage. My recollections of this reunion are vague because I am hyper-focused on an impending first date with some dude in NYC, the dude responsible for my being in NYC. An important domino in my life. Would I be in New York if it weren’t for this date? Probably not. Flavor: Tiramisu because it is the first time I try the dessert in New York.

The 15th: Ugh, 32. That’s almost as old as Jesus before he died and I have done nothing too important. IMe, Nici, Kirsten do learn that my classmates are wildly interesting, but I eat too many strawberries (not sure what this means and yet it is my lame excuse for fleeing Connecticut before the real festivities). Jesus would not have done this. Reunion flavor: Strawberry Agita.

My 20th: I’m 37! Though I could be the only single one left, I am…okay. Am I? Oh God. Why did I cut my hair short? Why!?? Despite those pesky feelings of low self-worth,  sleek black pants and a raincoat hide a whole lot of sh&*t. I’m grateful, at least, that I have done nothing terrible ever. Job, roof over my head, loved ones, no longer living off credit cards: not too shabby. Flavor: One scoop of vanilla because I’m blessed.

My 25th: I’m MARRIED. Look at my husband! You all know him! He’s cool! I’m not a dork anymore! Married, married, married. Oh wait, I missed all the crazy after-hours shenanigans because I’m married married married. Okay, I’m still a dork*. Flavor: Two scoops of matching flavors, whatever he wants.

My 30th: Married, married, married. This means I have another set of eyes and sharp senses to take in the entire event: my classmates, my teachers, the beautiful school itself, etc. I will enjoy this reunion and stay up all night**. Class of 1986, I’m ready. Beware of the girl who watches and records everything. She might write about it someday. Just kidding, sort of. But seriously, flavor: Whatever keeps us dancing.

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*but married

**to catch any shenanigans. The fact that I use the word “shenanigans” only proves my dorkiness.

Romantic Life Lessons, Shameless Promotion

Going Back to High School

Two weekends ago, Sam and I went to our high school for his 30th reunion. There was no pressure for me because I’m still in the bloom of youth (by two years). But to be honest, I always get jitters when I go back–or when I step out of the apartment. Also, as it is for many, my high school years were mixed–yet ones I remember vividly as happy, with great friends, teachers, and a feeling of home (dorms are cool). The campus is still gorgeous with its hills, fields, beaucoup de brick buildings, and what seems to be a thriving community. The teachers don’t seem to age either. Seriously, my math teachers look the same. How is this? I’ll assert that they all drink (or inhale?) a serum that keeps them young. Even the headmaster, who was a teacher in my teens, seems boyishly energetic. It kind pisses me off now that I think about it.

But I digrphoto (4)photo (10)ess (antphoto (7)i-aging makes me do that). Sam pretended that he wasn’t excited to go. Popular people do that, downplay how awesome it is to make a grand entrance, especially when you were/are so cool. Sam was very excited as evidenced by his racing down the highway many hours before we had to be there. At his last reunion, Sam put cucumbers on his eyelids. I wondered what kind of crazy hijinks he’d pull off this time. He and his squeaky clean BFF joked about doing something impish, but I knew very little would happen aside from closing down the hotel bar, maybe with some giggling over throwing a bucket of ice on a sleeping Sam in olden times. Middle age tempers those pranks. Sam did wind up tormenting the alumnae from Westover, who were staying at our hotel. He told the Westover ladies to “Get over it.” Get it? He also tried to keep up with the hotel shuttle to the class dinner, doing some entertaining zig-zags for those on the shuttle (while I turned green).

During the day we strolled around the school. After the parade of classes, we ate a buffet lunch in the revamped cafeteria where Sam and I first danced. As the reminiscing continued, I inhaled a few lemon bars, thinking how nice Sam’s class is. And just as I got lost in more sugar and caffeine, I turned to find two Tafties from Ohio, introducing themselves and telling me that they were reading Romance Is My Day Job for their book club. What a thrill! These two ladies made my weekend extra-special.

I floated thereafter, both on the compliments and instant gaining of body mass, and did as Dr. Oz would do, walk it off and explore (my own rare prescription). The main building entrance looked exactly the same: same tile, walls, offices, which was comforting. I rejoined Sam outside, and he reminded me to wear my sunblock. At one point, Sam’s other BFF lay down on the grass. Sam did the same. They held hands. Students strolled by, probably wondering who were these crazy old guys? Hijink accomplished.

Along with others from Sam’s class, I stood in line at the school store, eager to buy a Taft tote bag (because I don’t have enough of them from romance writers conferences). In front of me were much younger alumni, saying “oh my god, I need like need this coffee mug. Don’t you need a coffee mug? I need a coffee mug…” over and over. Even with this, I stuck it out in line for a good twenty minutes. Others bailed. I got my tote bag.

We went to a memorial service for Sam’s classmates who left us way too soon. My own class has lost too many and thinking about them made me grateful to have known them, and to have the life I have right now.

I took lots of pictures–of where Sam and I first danced, my dorm, the basement where one could easily sneak away from a dance, the Latin classrooms, and of course, my favorite couple.

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