You Can't Go Home Again. Nor Should You Want To.

I did something this past weekend I swore I'd never ever do. I mean, really, never ever, as long as breath drew in and out of this shell I inhabit.

I went to my class reunion.

For those of you who keep count, it was the 30 year reunion. Which absolutely blows my mind when I think about it, but I guess time does pass and there's not a damn thing we can do about it.

Anyway, the thing about never ever going to a reunion, well, it was what it was. There was nothing belligerent about it. I never said, "Ehh, that bunch of shits, I don't want to associate with them anymore under any circumstances." It was just something that held no interest for me.

When I was in high school I was, as you might imagine, a middler. I wasn't popular or shunned. I had friends, got along fine, got good grades, played in the band, and although I'm sure at the time there had to have been some drama here and there (I mean, it was high school after all), I really enjoyed my years at old Graham High. I was happy there. So happy, in fact, that had it been an option I'd have checked the "Stay Here Forever" block on my Life Sheet.

That's not an option though, as we all know, and I graduated, and the strangest thing happened. I had absolutely no desire to ever go back.

And I mean go back into the building. I can remember the first time I did go back into the building. The Nephew's first-ever school program. He was in kindergarten, so it would have been about 1994. I walked in, through the back door that leads to the cafeteria, walked down the short hall to the auditorium, sat down, boo-hooed like a baby when my 5-year old nephew sang "The Reindeer Twist" with his class in the Christmas program, then got up and walked out. Not so much as a look around to see how things had changed. In fact, until The Nephew marched in the high school marching band, I don't guess I'd been to more than three football games.

(An aside, because you all know how I love a good aside: To completely date myself, that back door that led to the cafeteria, in my day, had an actual smoking port. Kids could, if they had a note from the parents, go outside and just light one right up. You show me a school who has that nowadays and you win the fur-lined pisspot with the stucco handle.)

The ten-year reunion came and went, as did the twenty. I filled out the little questionnaires, well, one that I know of, probably both, but my RSVP always said no. For the ten, I had a legitimate excuse. My friend Tina was visiting from England and I was taking her up and down the Eastern Seaboard. In fact, during that visit we had a great conversation about the differences between England and the US. As Tina so eloquently put it, "You're so gung-ho about everything here. You actually go back and visit with the people from your school? At home it's, 'Goodbye, don't come back,' and they kick your arse out the door."

For the twenty I also had something better to do, which was either sitting at home watching a movie or going to bed early. I can't remember which.

And so the thirty loomed over me. Well, I say that like it was there and I was thinking about it, on the horns of a dilemma. I wasn't. I had no intention of going. In fact, I'd already gotten my little packet and RSVP'd no thanks. Then my sister had a conversation with me one day a few weeks ago, and it started like this: "Listen, I'm just saying this to keep my promise, so here it is. I talked to Scott [one of the four or so reunion coordinators] this weekend, and he said you have to come to the reunion. He was adamant about it, so there. I told you."

"Yep, OK," I said. "You kept your promise." But I knew I'd keep mine, too. No reunions for me.

And then a few really strange things happened, things that normally wouldn't have had the slightest effect on my changing my mind.

The first was that as I was buying groceries one afternoon after work, I ran smack-dab, buggy to buggy, into Rhonda. I graduated with Rhonda, and though she lives here, I hadn't seen her since graduation. She looked beautiful, just like 30 years ago, but with a face that had more wit and wisdom and life to it. It was so sweet and warm and familiar. I had a hard time getting it out of my mind.

The next was that I happened onto the reunion website. I'd been there, briefly, to fill out my questionnaire and say "thanks but no thanks," but for some reason I went back to it. Maybe to make sure that really was a picture of Tom Waits in all the old musical acts at the top of the page. I started reading the guestbook and seeing words from people I spent all those years with back when we were kids.

Then one day last week, probably Thursday, I had a small conversation with the brother-in-law by phone. Something very short and inconsequential, but in it he said, "You know, Scott and David [another coordinator] said you have to go to the reunion. Did you know Taylor's DJing at the dinner-dance on Saturday?" And why that started to turn my head, well, I was going to say I didn't know, but I probably do. I mean, it's The Nephew. I figured, "Hey, if I go to that thing and no one wants to talk to me, I can just hang out with Taylor and we'll spin songs of the 70s."

And that thought had no more than entered and left my head when it hit me. Is that it? Is that why I have no desire to do these things? I don't feel interesting or important enough for anyone to enjoy the fact that I'm there? And absolutely, by damn, for the first two reunions that was the case. I'd been thinking I'd have nothing in common or nothing to say to my former classmates, but the case was that I didn't think they'd have anything they'd want to say to me. And it was at that point, sitting there at my desk at TheCompanyIWorkFor, that I had something of an epiphany.

Good God's Hat, I really have grown in the past few years. Because I kind of started thinking this time around things could be different. Not because suddenly people would want to say things to me, but because I didn't really care if they wanted to or not. Because I knew I who was, and have kind of started to like that person.

I went home and looked at that reunion website again.

However, my dear blogees, you know me. And you'd be sorely disappointed if the story ended there, with me all confident and signing up to go with a swagger in my typing. No, I waited till Friday afternoon, bought a ticket, and immediately started to think, "There. I bought a ticket. Now I can go or not, and I probably won't. Maybe I'll go late, after dinner, have a drink, then come back home. Maybe I'll go very late, just as the bar's closing. Maybe I'll just sit in the parking lot and watch people go in and out."

See, you knew I wouldn't let you down, didn't you?

And it really wasn't till Saturday morning that I decided for sure I'd go. In the afternoon I started getting ready for the 6:00 event, got dressed, and was sure to load my iPod with all the songs from my "Memory Lane" file, because apparently now Djing doesn't involve records so much as it involves computers and iPods, and I wanted Taylor to have some songs from the day. I hit the road, got to the spot on the Betty Bet Bet Inspirational Highway where you turn right to go up the hill to the hotel where it was....

And I turned left.

I went to the parking lot of K-Mart and had a cigarette. I couldn't help it. Well, half a cigarette, but that was all I needed.

I pulled into the hotel parking lot, and a car pulled in and parked right beside me. A man was in that car. I was getting my pocketbook and all my stuff ready, and somehow hit the car alarm on Podmobile2. It was ungodly loud. I thought, "Oops, sorry, guy beside me," and when I got out of the car, I saw that guy was Jackson. My first friendly face, and I had someone to walk in with.

And my fine feathereds, I have to tell you, walking into that room was a revelation. There were those people I went to school with, all looking beautiful and handsome and happy. The first person to point at me and come up to say hi was Cline, who I thought wouldn't have remembered who I was in a hundred years. Then up came Todd, and Teresa, and Teresa (why don't people name their kids Teresa nowadays?), and Rita, and Joann, and of course Scott, who I don't think was expecting me even though I bought that last-minute ticket.

I inched my way to the bar (womaned by Kim, also in our class) for a, and Stennie, get this, glass of wine. (For those who don't listen to the Hucklebug, I've been forbidden by Stennie to drink wine when we record because you can't shut me up afterwards.) Kim's idea of a glass of wine was about a half bottle, by the way, and for this I will always love her. Then Scott took me aside and pointed me towards the room and made me play the "Can You Guess Who That Is" game, which I passed with flying colors. In fact, I won, a victory of pride only, but still satisfying. There was only one person I missed. For me, it was a walk. All these people looked just as I remembered them except (just like Rhonda) happy and more relaxed and grown into themselves.

A little later, Lisa and Prissy showed up. When I was at Graham, there were seven of us girls who were inseparable. Lisa, Prissy, and I were the only three there, but it was so good to see them. It had been years.

(Aside #2! There was a point where The Nephew took my car keys to go get the iPod filled with 70s music, and suddenly people started pulling out their iPods. "I have the Eagles!" "I have Boston!" The Class of '78 goes 21st century.)

We had dinner at tables, then afterwards we all went outside for a picture, and when we returned we all table-switched and everyone got a chance to talk to everyone else. And that's what I think I'll remember most about my 30-year reunion. There were no drawn lines anymore. No cliques. No jocks, stoners, rednecks, popular kids, rich kids, poor kids, nerds, or bullies. There were no "How come you never married/had kids/left B'field" questions, no long-winded "Ahh, I remember when" spiels, no "I made $250,000 this year, you know" disclosures. No one was trying to impress anyone else.

We just had fun.

And then the adorable DJ packed up and left, and so did the most of the people, and David reminded me for the third time that I didn't stop smiling and laughing the entire night. And I'm sure he was right.

At the end, there were just handful left. Maybe five. I was one of them.

And so, as I said to start it all, you can't go home again. You can't go back and dwell on your high school days. Nor should you want to. But that doesn't mean you can't have a hell of a good time with the people who went through it all with you.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* Acrowinners, we have acrowinners! And boy, look at the entries! So, what should I name my rental car?
- Honorable Mention goes to LilyG, with her, "Royale Dyn-o-mite Buggy" (the "e" on royale was a nice touch).
- Runner-Up goes to Michelle (the dishy), with her, "Rough Dastardly Bastard."
- And this week's winner is Patrick (my little Patrick), with his, "Rockin' Delta Black." I could definitely call this car that, and in fact, from now on, I want you all to call me that as well.
- Thanks to all who played, you've all done very well!