Fear And Loathing: High School Reunion Edition
Full disclosure: While writing this article, I’ve spent numerous hours Facebook stalking my former circle of best friends, my prom date (hey Peter, hope you’re well, sorry I was such an asshole at prom…), and at least 12 people I have no desire seeing ever again in my life.
Let us begin.
It’s 9 o’clock on a Sunday evening, and I’m mid-social media binge, attempting to avoid my Sunday Scaries. (Sunday Scaries is a phenomena best described as the bubbling dread you feel on a Sunday after a long weekend of admitting zero responsibility. Monday looms on the horizon, and you feel little to no direction in your life. It’s terrifying. And it happens at least one Sunday a month.) And then a Facebook notification pings onto my screen. I have been invited to my 10 Year Reunion. Shit.
The invitation is from a girl named Lea and the host is a girl named Kaylin. (I don’t recognize the latter at first, and then I realize at one point in our high school career we were thick as thieves — she’s since gotten married, changed her last name, and acquired a baby bump. To be honest, though — as soon as I put the pieces together, I was like, “Duh. Of course Kaylin’s planning this reunion. She’s the Melissa Joan Hart of our very own “Can’t Hardly Wait”, sans pigtails and braces.”) The first thing that floods through my body is this: fear. That’s right, the big, nasty, horrifying, fucking F word. Fear.
But why? It’s just a party. Just a party, full of people I haven’t seen in over 10 years. People who knew me back when I wasn’t exactly sure of myself. People who knew me when I still had a world of possibility at my fingertips. People, who for the most part, are working traditional jobs, with traditional marriages, traditional children and traditional trajectories. And me? Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just a single 27-year-old woman with no desire to be in a relationship, work a 9-to-5 job or even think about having children.
And I’m living a life that doesn’t even come close to the life I thought I’d be living by this age. If you, like me, are not where you anticipated you would be by the age that you are — then welcome to the safety net. Consider this a cozy corner of anxiety, pizza, red wine and yoga pants, where you can express your feelings of inadequacy, failure and fear of the future.
When I was in high school in the privileged suburbs of Chicago, I imagined my life at 27 to be very put together. Living in New York, working in public relations, or maybe writing for a fashion magazine — living alone in a well furnished and meticulously decorated apartment. Going to things like art gallery openings, yoga class, meeting up with the girls for brunch. Yes, I dreamt of the typical suburban “Sex and the City” teenage dreams — living, loving, writing, and sexing, all in the big city. My class superlative was “Most Likely To Be The Next American Idol”. And where I am now? In a very small town in Northern Michigan, working a handful of jobs, paying off my student loans, living paycheck to paycheck, weighing my options. A few (hundred) steps shy of living the dream. I am no American Idol.
But does my fear lie in admitting that to other people? Or admitting it to myself? Why do I care so much about what the kids I went to high school with think of me? Did I care this much when I was in high school? Was I so concerned about looking successful at the age of 17? No. Hell no. Somewhere between then and now, I’ve become less confident in who I am as a person, in who I am as a woman.
I’m happy with being single. I’m hella happy that I don’t have kids. I’m ecstatic that I’m not pushing numbers at a desk Monday through Friday, wearing pantyhose and low heeled pumps at the water cooler. Frankly, I would rather die than live a life that looks like that. And that’s my choice. That’s my personal choice. If I wanted that? I could have that. I could be an assistant to a something or other full-time, letting a corporate job suck the life out of me. But that’s not me. I’m not that girl. I’d rather be on day three of dry shampoo, sitting in a coffee shop between shifts, penning articles that may or may not get published, chasing my dreams instead of settling for a life that I don’t want.
My parents, I’m sure, would be much happier if I were sitting behind a desk with a steady paycheck. Stability is what parents want for their children. Passion, if it fits. The rest of my family wants to know if I’m seeing anyone, if I’m going back to school, if I’ve settled yet. The answer to all of those questions is a resounding “No”. But the sweat that forms on my forehead when answering these questions is the same sweat that formed when I got that invitation.
After 43 minutes of scrolling through RSVPs, I settled on “Maybe”. Maybe I’ll go. And maybe I won’t. Sure, there are a few people I’d like to see. There are a few people I don’t want to see. And there are more than a few people I don’t even remember. (When you graduate with a class of several hundred, it’s easy to forget a few faces.) (Sorry, guys.)
Regardless of whether I decide to attend or not, this invitation has played its part. It’s served as a wake up call. A clue in to the fact that I still, after all these years, care far too much about what other people think of me. Who the fuck cares what people think? At the end of the day, what matters is how happy I am with myself. That I’m a 27-year-old woman, stumbling my way through adulthood, looking to Taylor Swift for guidance, and holding daily dance parties while I’m at it. I like changing my hair color when I feel like it, singing loudly in public, buying avocados when I feel fancy, big ass sunglasses and eating Red Velvet Oreos for breakfast. I am on my way to living my life as myself, unapologetically. I might be taking the long way around, but I’m getting there. On my terms.
And if I do go to the reunion? Watch out.
I’ll be the one drinking whiskey, shaking my buns and singing at the top of my lungs. See you there. Maybe.
