At the risk of dating myself, my 20 year high school reunion is already in the planning stages for next fall. In fact, I was about the only date I could get back in high school – hell, I didn’t even get asked to PROM, for crissakes – but that’s just one of myriad uncomfortable memories that I hold dear to my heart. There is already a Facebook group trying to hash out all the plans…where do we wanna go…maybe a club, maybe a formal dinner? Not surprisingly, those delightful gals are even only half-joking when they say, “Let’s have a kegger in the desert, just like the old days!”
Oh, you mean the keggers where you all drank yourselves sick, spread your legs wide open, and let every member of the football team (and, in some cases, the girls softball team) lick you until you were swollen and bald? Ah, yes…memories.
I was the Daria of my graduating class. I talked like her, I acted like her, and I even looked like her with my long brown hair and big, round glasses. I definitely had, and still have, her “go fuck your mother” attitude, ESPECIALLY when it comes to a number of my old school chums. No…I literally mean CHUM, as in “fish refuse.” There were so many dirty girls, that it smelled like a fish cannery, but I digress.
I had a difficult time fitting in. I think, deep down, I wanted to be popular, but not at the expense of my individuality and biting sarcasm. Back then, I didn’t realize that there was a difference between “popular” and “well-liked.”
I even struck social gold by making it onto the cheerleading squad, but I still couldn’t manage to gain any favor with the “it” girls. I think that may have made them hate me MORE. I suppose I was only in it for the shiny pompoms. OH, and the tangible and searing contempt from all the girls that tried out, were sure they were shoe-ins, and then gasped in slack-jawed disbelief when MY name was called for the final cut and they were thanked for their time. Oh yeah, THOSE are the memories that warm the cockles of MY heart.
When I was in high school, I was one of the pseudo-goth kids of my time. Back then, we were “new wavers.” I was very much “new wave” with my berets and long skirts and china flats (or Chuck Taylor’s – when they were STILL made in the U.S.)…I also dug out my dad’s old trench coat and wore that from time to time (even though it WREAKED of Chesterfields). I had the Pat Benatar haircut for a while. I listened to Depeche Mode, New Order, The Cure, Erasure…and Yaz. I loved Yaz – the band, NOT that retarded birth control. In fact, the dance routine that we performed at cheer leading tryouts was to a Yaz song…you know, the year that I MADE THE SQUAD AND YOU BITCHES DIDN’T?
Gosh, did I just type that out loud?
I thought I was looking forward to my reunion, but I now believe the jury is still out on that decision. On one hand, I am going back as the published author of now TWO books (second one being released this February, but advance copy is IN HAND!). I will, so help me GOD, be 40 pounds thinner, and I certainly won’t look old enough to have a son attending the very high school from which we graduated (although, after running into my old English teacher, I hear the school is an abysmal, directionless, shit vacuum and I am not sure I want my son to go, AT ALL, but we’ll see…).
On the OTHER hand, these were not the people that I CHOSE to be around for four years of my life. It was just by happenstance that we all got thrown into a steaming vat of social gumbo and had to sort it out amongst ourselves. I stayed on the fringes…friends with some of the popular kids, but not the right kind of “cool” to get invited to any parties. My dancing and grades got me on the cheerleading squad, but my presence went so unnoticed that my name didn’t even get included into the squad’s secret Santa drawing…and this was after months of practices and games. Like an asshole, I bought presents for someone, but I didn’t get so much as a pack of gum. Turns out someone ELSE was buying for that bitch, too, and so she got twice as many gifts. On the last day, everyone finally noticed what happened and she tried to give me a pity gift, but I didn’t take it. In retrospect, I have to believe that was done on purpose because it’s much harder to reconcile yourself to the fact that you don’t exist in their world, rather than just being universally hated. At least hate is an emotion.
Don’t get me wrong. I do have friends from high school…the best ones are there for every holiday, birthday, and venting session. They will give me a ride to work if I need it. They will buy my books without even being prompted. They are cool in a way that most people never could be, even if they spent years trying. Nevertheless, there is still something very visceral about my desire to tell all those horrid bitches to go fuck themselves, and to MAKE SURE THEY HEAR IT.
Just to clarify…as I have stated before, I don’t hold grudges, I am just a documentarian and a scorekeeper.
I cannot be the only person in the world that really does keep track. I may be the only one with enough balls to ADMIT it, but I guarantee that everyone has their own “list.” Everybody says that they don’t care what people think, but this isn’t about what other people think. This is about retroactive accountability. This is seizing the opportunity to realize it is MY turn to make a few people feel stupid, worthless, and insignificant in the shadow of my personal and professional success, popularity, and wealth.
This is about reminding them that high school really was, and will always have been, the best years of their lives.
