I have this strange sort of ambivalence toward the reunion. It would be cool to see everybody, sure, but not $98 worth of cool. I went to my 10-year reunion, and left early feeling sort of awkward. It was like high school all over again -- all that stuff I didn't like about high school.
A few days ago, a high school friend with whom I've recently reunited sent me a message on Facebook to tell me that there would be a pre-reunion get-together at Whitey's Fish Camp on Friday night and that I should meet her there. Sounded fairly painless, so I went.
Whitey's is a pretty popular place by Clay County standards, and on Friday nights it's especially hoppin'. After being herded to a tiny parking space by a reflective-vest-clad attendant, I went into the packed restaurant in the hopes of recognizing people I haven't seen in 10 or 20 years. I spotted a couple possibilities (including someone who claimed he wasn't who I thought he was -- thanks, Robert, that made things SO much less awkward!), but no Christy, so I went back outside on the bench to wait.
Desperate phone call placed, Christy assured me she was on her way, and that I should go back inside and find a few other people who I'd apparently missed at the bar. I went back inside for a drink with a couple people I'd known reasonably well in high school, and let my social brilliance shine through: "Oh, hi, Mary! I almost failed Zoology because I didn't have the cojones to argue with the teacher that the reason I was looking toward your paper was not that I was copying your answers but because you were left-handed and we kept bumping elbows as we wrote. Good to see you!" Not something smoother like, "Mary! You know, I was thinking about you the other day while I was running down River Road and trying to remember which dock we fished from that time to collect specimens for the zoology class fishtank. Remember that? Oh, zany high school fun that I was actually a part of..."
Drinks in the air-conditioned bar moved to drinks on the sweltering outdoor patio, where it was virtually impossible to walk or even turn around without tackling someone into a table. I packed myself into a corner with a couple of other people I knew, clinging to them like a lifeline. A few more old friends came and went, people I'd been genuinely excited to see.
An inebriated classmate who had been in a much higher popularity echelon than I had been swore I looked familiar to her, and chatted with me for a while about how precious children are. Somehow I ended up at an outside table with a couple people, but when they decided to leave for a bit, I went back in and found myself lost, unable to locate any of the people I felt most comfortable with.
I'm a pretty shy person. I'm not the kind of person who throws parties or invites people to the house or out to dinner. I try not to impose myself needlessly on anyone else. I remember every stupid thing I've ever done or said, and I always assume everyone else does, too. I tend to take things personally. The smallest, unintentional slight can scare me away. I'm not good at showing people or telling people how I feel about them. (I can remember my husband saying once about a student of mine, "I don't think that boy will ever know how much you love him." He was probably right.) I downright suck at mingling.
So I left. I'm not too bummed about it. Big reunions just aren't who I am, and I'm cool with that. I'm going to set a goal, though, of getting together with one old friend a month -- or at least asking. Small groups. Baby steps.
