Ghosts of My Past

Last night I went to my 20 year High School reunion. It may sound lame but I went for the nostalgia. My graduating class had less than 200 people and it was a small tight knit community. That's not to say that there weren't any draw backs, I mean we didn't have a cinema, the closest mall was 25 miles away and we were surrounded by farmlands. For some people the biggest thrill was going Cow Tipping (going out into a field and pushing sleeping cows over) late at night, I personally did not take part in it because I thought it was cruel and just plain stupid. The Play by Play:

2:00 pm pick out several outfits that will not make me look too fat in front of people that I used to hang with 20 years ago when their opinions mattered

2:15pm get call from friend who advises many cocktails and that I should tell everybody at the reunion that I'm a professional killer a la John Cusak in Grosse Point Blank-agree with friend and wonder if my ex classmates will get the joke

2:30 pm put every 80's compliation cd in car to aid in the total nostalgia immersion. Memories of leg warmers; the thin gold, glittery bands around the forehead; big hair; even bigger shoulder pads; and fantasizing about being in a Duran Duran music video would be helpful for the 2 hour drive

3:00 pm crank Pat Benatar Best Shots cd in home player until the floor vibrates from the sub woofer's efforts and step into the shower because she was THE BOMB and every high school in the 80's had several Benatar wanna-bes (yes I was one of them-sadly I could never pull it off because I'm vertically challenged, round and can't sing to save my soul)

3:15 pm step out of shower and stare in horror at the outfits I picked out; discard most and finally settle on one that will not make me look like a complete goober

3:45 pm put "my face" on a.k.a. put the make up on and make my hair poofy

4:00 pm dash out of the house and begin to sing-a-long in a very off key voice with Boy George asking Do you really want to hurt me?

6:15 pm arrive at the reunion after getting lost in my home town (very startling how much things have changed in 20 years-I don't know why I thought it would stay the same?)

6:20 pm enter the restaurant and memories of entering the high school caffeteria with my lunch tray in hand flood over me, the mass of people, loud voices, uncertainty of where to sit, vainly scanning the crowd to find members of my clique-ACK! I need a bevvie! I get my name tag from a long table with a photograph of our graduating class (we were assembled in our 80's finest on the gym bleachers) that had been blown up to the size of Rhode Island.
Random thoughts:
God we looked so cocky
Did we really think those fashion choices were cool?
We all look so freakin' young-we were so freakin' young!!

Lost in a sea of high school memories I realize that I need a serious drink. I head to the bar and order a vodka martini-neat with two olives...it's going to be a two olive night I can tell. I down the first drink and immediatley order a second. The alcohol has been watered down and it is nowhere near top rail variety. I'm really beginning to feel like John Cusak.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn, two people stand there smiling. I fumble, I have no idea who they are, my brain freezes and I grin stupidly hoping that they will enlighten me. They laugh and introduce themselves, they were two of my best friends when I was in school. I feel like a goon, shake hands, pound back the 2nd Martoony and give hugs all 'round. As they chatter like semi automatic gunfire, I nibble on my olives, smiling at the right time, giggling when appropriate, until one of them asks, "What do you do for a living?" Unable to resist the temptation I reply that I'm a professional killer (following earlier phone advice). Their faces drop, I read shock and wonder in their eyes. Not to sound demeaning but people in small rural towns can be a little guillable. I chortle and tell them that was a line from Grosse Point Blank...their eyes remain vacant-they haven't seen the movie and have missed the humor completley. I want to crawl under the nearest rock.
This is not an urbanized area and still a bit backward, a big night out is a night of professional wrestling (not that there's anything wrong with that-mind you, it's just not my bag baby). More alcohol is in order, my friends order wine and I move on to the third Martoony of the evening, praying that the sharp surreal Edge will soften a bit. Suddenly Quiet Riot's Cum on Feel the Noize blasts from the speakers and I excuse myself. I need to find the bathroom, The Edge is still quite sharp and I'm feeling a bit stressed. As I circumnavigate the crowd I am reminded of my days in junior high.

At the friday night dances I spent 95% of my time in the ladies room. I was pudgy, unattractive, did not wear cool clothes and was rather shy. I would stand in the bathroom and watch the pretty girls whip out their bottles of hairspray (because it was ALL about the hair back then) and poof their hair, readjust their prefect make-up and wish that I could afford those wonderful lip glosses and Jordache jeans. My parents had just gotten divorced. My mother worked three jobs and my father refused to pay child support. In the Big 80's we were poor.

I enter the bathroom, and stare at the mirror, the reflection that looks back is not of me, now. It's the reflection of that silly kid who wanted acceptence and desperatley wanted to belong.

The Martoony's are not having the desired effect.

Depeche Mode faintly tells me through the thin bathroom walls that people are people who why should it be...? I shake myself out of junior high mode. I tell myself that it's been 20 years and these people really have no effect in my life anymore.
Feeling revived I head back out and perambulate through the crowd, saying hello to people I vaguely recognize. I belly up to the bar and order another Martoony. In the days of my childhood, these people were important. Now they have no power over me. Most haven't made it out of my hometown and I find that a little sad. I cannot imagine staying in one place for the duration of one's life. My friends find me and I'm strangely relieved when they tell me they've saved a seat for me at their table.

Some high school routines die hard.

We eat dry chicken, greasy potatoes, listless salad and flovorless bread soaks up the watered alcohol in my system. The Edge has finally softened. Photos of kids are passed around, child birth stories are exchanged, and some 80's trivia games are played. We finish off the meal with a scoop of lemon sherbet which I haven't eatten since I was in 6th grade. Blips and flashes of my childhood are revisited as I feel the sweet/tart confection dissolve on my tongue. I play with the balloon centerpieces and banter.

Nostalgia overload complete.

The Martoony's had worn off, it was time to leave the ghosts where they belong, in the past. I said my goodbyes, handed out e mail addresses to friends that had faded and headed out the door.

I don't think I could handle going through high school again.