To the Capital High class of ‘94: so, like, what have you been up to?

I like to think that, especially when compared with my 20-year-ago self, I have an open heart and mind. I like to think that I have forgiven people (including myself), that I have gained confidence and strength where there was once insecurity and fear. I like to think that I am less concerned with coolness than I am about authenticity. I like to think that I make every attempt to really see people. I like to think that I always remember that the most challenging people in my life are my best teachers. I like to think that I know that everything is a mirror. I like to think I’m funny and nice. Yes, I like to think these things very much.

I was reluctant to attend my 20 year reunion because it’s hard to even imagine having an authentic experience at one of those things. Cutting out the sassy teenage voice claiming that all those people are idiots and that’s why it’ll be hard, I quickly realized that it’s not because nobody wants to reconnect and have a real conversation, it’s not because we’re incapable and they’re not fucking idiots. It’s because we are all nervous as shit. So it started with that. Showing up and being completely honest: I was nervous as shit.

I woke up wondering what to wear. I woke up feeling like I needed to bring someone with me—my kids who are at their dads for the weekend—my boyfriend who doesn’t even live in the same place as me—my best friend who was out of town—someone to bolster me and validate me and buffer me from those people. Nope. I wasn’t afraid of being judged. I wasn’t afraid of them. I was afraid that when put in a room with them—without any of my current people around to remind me who I am now, that I would become the person I used to be. Insecure, bitchy (as Marvin lovingly put it last night—you weren’t a bitch, just bitch-ish), afraid to look in the mirror.

So I said to anyone who would look me in the eye: I’m nervous about this. And they were too! We could both take a deep breath and know that we were not alone in this. I realized that admitting that you’re nervous means you are present. It means you are paying attention. It means that you bring consciousness to your experiences. Admitting that something is scary is somehow an act of bravery, and by some twisted equation, makes it makes the thing less scary.

So I spent the afternoon in the park with people I haven’t seen or heard from in 20 years, and it was kinda lovely. I love reminiscing. I love hearing stories about things I don’t remember doing or saying. I love the idea that my life then was more than the totally negative string of memories I have held onto. I love seeing old photos of clothes I don’t remember wearing and parties I can’t recollect. I love hearing stories about people living through ridiculous things they did, but it makes me wonder—what does it feel like now?

That was the question I wanted to ask last night, at the grown-up party, where hundreds of us gathered in a hot, loud tiki-themed bar and made small talk. I wanted to know: how does it feel to be you? But instead, we all just asked each other “What have you been up to?” What the fuck kind of question is that? It’s the kind of question you ask when you stop caring. It’s the kind of question you ask after a wall has been resurrected around your heart, when your head and heart stop working together. There I was, not caring. Not because I don’t really care, but because it is so hard to care when people are spilling tequila on my shoes, when I’m being ignored by large groups of shiny, grimacing plastic faces. It’s hard to care when people are screaming everywhere. It’s hard to care when I can see the sadness in everyone’s eyes and I know that if I opened up I’d just cry for everyone and all of it.

But seriously, class of ‘94: how does it feel to be you? I for one think we can do better than to pack ourselves into a skanky bar on a Saturday night. I think we could actually attempt to make some meaning about that whole experience. I think we can explore those formative years we all spent together and practice not just being older, wrinklier, greyer, fatter, sadder, scareder versions of our high school selves. So if you feel like talking—picking up where we left off—get in touch. Stay in touch. Let’s not let another 20 years pass before we ask each other again: what have you been up to?

xo

cs

c@bricoshoppe.com