After much deliberation, procrastination, and outright avoidance, I decided at the 11^th hour to attend my ten-year high school reunion.  I sent my money in at the last possible moment and promptly stopped thinking about it.  I didn’t start thinking about it again until I pulled into the parking lot and realized I was actually going to have to walk in and interact with those people.  It may seem odd that that thought hadn’t already crossed my mind, but when it comes to social unpleasantries I’m a master of denial.  Actually, I’m the same way with painful dental procedures: I make the appointment, show up to the office smiling and humming, smile and hum all the way down the hall, smile and hum as they’re strapping me down in the chair, and only remember how much this is going to suck once they start revving the drills. I imagine I’ll be the same way once I’m old enough to require regular colonoscopies.

The problem with my reunion—besides Facebook making it redundant—was that most of my high school friends were either a year above me, a year below me, or attended another high school altogether.  This problem became obvious once I voiced my reticence to my parents.

“What about Steve?” asked Dad. “He’ll be there, right?”
“No Dad, Steve was a year younger than me.”
“Really? What about Omar?”
“Dad, Omar was a year older than me AND went to Catholic School.”

And so on and so on.  My Dad methodically listed off all of my nearest and dearest from my teenage years, none of whom were eligible to attend my reunion.  To make matters worse, the friends I did have from my graduating class all seemed to be conspicuously absent from the final guest list.  If I had to make a list of the top fifteen people whose presence would make the night bearable, even, dare I say it, enjoyable, only two or three were actually going to show up.  Jennifer, my best friend in 11^th grade, who was the first person I knew who smoked pot and didn’t become a deranged psycho killer?  Nope, she won’t be there.  Or Brad, who, at the time, looked like Cousin Itt from the Addams Family, and who played bass in my one and only foray into the world of high school prog rock?  Nope, for I all know he might now have a clean-shaven military look, but I won’t have the opportunity to update my mental image of him during this trip.  How about Lawrence, who was a model young Republican and president of the school’s chapter of the Future Business Leaders of America but who is now, according to his Facebook page, living in sin with his boyfriend in NYC?  I’d love to ask him some questions, pull on his coat a bit, but that coat’ll probably be hung in the purple shag closet of his gay love nest.

Great.  This is going to be a blast.  Can’t wait.

Another big problem is that I’m a very humble guy who happens to have accomplished some pretty awesome stuff since graduating high school.  Two of these accomplishments, which we’ll call Thing One and Thing Two, both elicit awed “wows" from friend and stranger alike, but I'm determined not to talk about them.  It just feels unnecessarily braggy.  That'll be tough, though, since both Things answer the question, "So, what have you been up to since high school?" Maybe it's crazy, but I'm going to try to pass myself off as boring and unaccomplished, which seems like the exact opposite of what you're supposed to do at these things. 

Wait, why and I going to this, again?

In order to make my reunion experience as enjoyable as possible, I’ve created the following game:

Presumably there will be several people in attendance who are only there looking for someone to hook up with.  Identify, as quickly as possible, one male and one female from this category and monitor their progress towards each other.

Perhaps I may seem a bit cynical about the intentions of my classmates, but trust me, I’m judging them by the content of their characters. Every time I go back to my hometown (usually for major holidays) and drop by my hometown bar, I usually find hometown hero (sarcasm!) Sam Benson chatting up another one of Monroe’s prodigal daughters, home for Thanksgiving.  After a couple of drinks she’s usually sitting in his lap.  I don’t want to judge here; all I’m saying is that there seems to be a market for sad, glory day-rememberin’ hookups.  And if the one-time captain of the football team can continue providing me, as a spectator, with quality entertainment, then so be it.

And so I will be live blogging the events of my reunion for those of you who wonder what a reunion is like in the post-Facebook world.  And by “live blogging,” I actually mean this all happened already, but I kept meticulous notes on a napkin.

Let the fun begin!Please wait

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Please wait

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7:30 pm: The official start of the festivities! Friends reunite, old high school sweethearts share pictures of their kids, and the liquor flows freely! At least, that’s what I assume is happening, because I’m still at home, finding good excuses to drag my feet. Hey, how can I enjoy myself at this reunion when there’s still a sink full of dishes?

8:15 pm: I officially run out of justifiable procrastination activities.  Sighing, I slide the last book onto my parents’ freshly re-alphabetized bookcase, put away the tray of fine silver and the bottle of silver polish, and slouch out to the car.

8:25 pm: Wow, that was a much quicker drive than I expected. I fiddle with the settings on my radio for a minute—boost the treble a little bit, experiment with a bit less bass—and then head on in.

8:26 pm: When I was in tenth grade, I entered into my first committed, long-term relationship, which, in tenth-grader time, spanned almost four whole months. When we broke up that summer I also acquired my first and only stalker. Although she graduated and went away to college that fall, she still came back to visit our high school an awful lot, and she seemed to know just where to be to bump into me in the halls between classes.  A lot. FOR TWO YEARS. That’s an eternity in high school time, yet she still seemed to know my schedule, and her well-placed confederates kept her abreast of all my dating trends.  Well after I graduated high school, I’d still occasionally get the chilly feeling that she was watching from the bushes as I was picking up my college girlfriends for dates or taking my garbage out to the dumpster.  I thought of her fondly whilst setting my Facebook and MySpace privacy settings.  So of course I was not at all surprised to walk into my reunion and run smack into... HER.  Yes. First person I see. How, do you ask, did she get in? Didn’t she graduate two years before you did? HA!  You underestimate her abilities, and that, gentle reader, is a mistake you only make once! No, she came as the “+1” guest of her sister, who was in my year, and who, for whatever reason, opted to bring her older sister to the reunion instead of her husband. And why the hell not, right? I give her a hug, ask how’s she doing, and then, excusing myself to hang up my coat, hightail it to the bar at the far end of the room.  Open bar + Psycho ex-girlfriend = 2 shots of bourbon, STAT.  The event is in two rooms, and I vow to keep her in the other room as much as possible.

8:35 pm: I note that two shots of bourbon really work wonders for these types of social functions.  Take two shots of bourbon and call me in the morning, I say to myself, and then laugh at my own bad joke.  I’m about to order another, but think better of it, remembering that I drove here.  I order a Coke and look around for someone to awkwardly make small talk with.

8:36 pm: Laura Ott, round with child! She now teaches at our old high school, and I notice she’s a bit defensive about it.  Of course I knew all of this already, because we’re friends on Facebook. In fact, I’m friends with my entire graduating class on Facebook.  Gawd, this reunion is ridiculous in its redundancy! Chit chat, chit chat, and I successfully avoid mentioning Thing One and Thing Two.  In fact, she asks what I’ve been up to these last ten years, and I shrug and say “Oh, nothing too exciting, really.” I am such a liar.

8:41 pm: I spot Sam Benson, talking to a girl whose name I can’t remember but who looks really familiar.  Oh, it’s on.

8:42 pm: I wander into the next room and run smack dab into Luke Rodriguez.  Luke and I ran in different circles—he was a jock, I was more of a drama and band kid—but he was always a really friendly, outgoing, ambassadorial kind of guy.  He smiles, shakes my hand, and then proceeds to look over my head the entire time we’re talking, scanning the room for someone else to talk to.  He, too, is a high school teacher, and he, too, has child on the way.  Of course I already knew this, though: we’re friends on Facebook.

One thing’s been bothering me, though. Luke’s looking a little, well, fat.  So is Sam. So is Laura. So is everyone, really. Everyone seems to have put on twenty or more pounds since 1999.  Suddenly I’m self-conscious.  Shit, did I get fat? Well, I did, I guess. I weigh about 25 pounds more now than I did in high school, but I added all that weight when I quit smoking several years ago, so I have an excuse, right? Shit. I’m going to the gym first thing when I get home...

8:47 pm: Mike motherflippin’ Scully! This guy, definitely, was on my short list.  We first met in the Cub Scouts and remained friends all through high school.  He’s an intimidatingly large and muscular guy, and he folds me up in bear hug and lifts me off the ground.  He's been taking full advantage of the open bar. We chat for a couple minutes—his younger sister is in Boston now, have I seen her?—and I ask about his band.  After college I used to book music at a little venue in Virginia, and his band came through once or twice while on tour.  He smiles: actually, yeah, they have been doing pretty well.  He starts humming a song, and suddenly I realize I’ve heard it on the radio before.  No shit, dude, that’s you? Michael motherflipin’ Scully, getting some radio play!

9:02 pm: Todd Adams joins Mike and I, and after LESS THAN A MINUTE he drops something that rivals my Thing One.  You’re frickin’ kidding me, right? There wasn’t even a natural lead in; he just said it to impress us.  Oh no you don’t, fucker. I think it’s time to bust out the big guns.

“MORATORIUM ON TALKING ABOUT THING ONE” TIME OF DEATH: 9:04pm

Of course I drop Thing One with a bit more tact and delicacy than Todd did, working it naturally into the conversation.  If he thinks he can just flit around the room, impressing people with his awesome life, well, he’s got another thing coming.  Hey, he got fat too, just like the rest of us.

“MORATORIUM ON TALKING ABOUT THING TWO” TIME OF DEATH: 9:07pm

No sooner do I match Todd with Thing One than he comes back with his own Thing Two. Now I’m not even trying to work my Thing Two into the conversation, I blurt it out almost before Todd stops talking.  Take that, fattie!

9:08 pm: Todd laughs and playfully punches me on the arm, but he punches me hard.  I rub my arm, laugh, and then punch his arm, HARD.  Todd rears back and punches me on my arm.  I punch him back.  He punches me back.  Each punch is getting harder and harder, and although we’re laughing and pretending to be playful I’m really trying to bust his arm off.

9:10 pm: A mutual friend steps in and quietly suggests we perhaps take this to a more suitable venue, so we take it outside. 

9:11 pm: Okay, Todd’s is a hair bigger, but I can pee farther and longer with mine.  We agree to call it a draw.

9:13 pm: I’m about to casually suggest that I might be willing to chop off more fingers than he is, but before I can go back to the kitchen to look for a knife I notice my psycho ex making a beeline towards us while not actually looking at us.  It’s one of those clever tricks stalkers learn when they want to approach you and make it look like an accident.  I wait until she’s “stumbles” upon us—“Oh, Shaggy! Todd! How are you guys!”—before suggesting Todd tell her all about his Thing One and Thing Two.  Todd launches right into it, and I hightail it into the other room.  I notice that I’ve been doing a lot of hightailing lately.

9:17 pm: When I was in middle school I had my first religious experience.  I think it was seventh or eighth grade when I realized that the Lord God had created the absolute Platonic ideal of feminine beauty and sexuality, named her Irena Hillcourt, and gently placed her down on earth in the same town as me.  If God had just created her and not put her in my town, it would have been enough! But God not only put her in my town, He made her the same age as me and put her in three of the same classes! Hallelujah!

I don’t think I ever exchanged more than a half dozen blushing, stammering words with Irena in my life, but as I’m getting a refill on my coke she comes up to the bar next to me to get a drink and starts up a conversation.  It’s the same crap conversation I’ve been having all night, but this time it’s with Irena Hillcourt.  She seems to be one of the few people who managed to avoid getting fat. To my credit, I adeptly manage to pronounce every word correctly and don’t mention Thing One or Thing Two.  In fact, the whole interaction is kind of boring.  Sure, I’m still mildly in awe of the fact that she remembered things about me from high school (like my name!), but apparently Irena Hillcourt is only human.  Who knew!

9:25 pm: I’ve noticed that navigating from one end of the room to the other is becoming tricky, because I’m constantly seeing people I don’t really want to talk to but would feel obligated acknowledge if we came within ten feet of each other.  Plus psycho ex is out there, making these waters particularly treacherous to navigate.  I decide to make my way back over to Mike Scully, but I end up taking a winding, meandering path back to the spot where he’s standing.

9:29 pm: Mike is now talking with Kathleen Barry and Laurel Capuano, who look exactly the same as they did ten years ago.  Exactly.  The same. I come in mid-conversation, and Laurel is talking about all the older men she’s dated and trying to play it off like it’s exasperating, but she’s obviously bragging. She then comments to Mike, “Hey, remember that party where you and me and Jennifer got sooooo wasted? I was just talking to Jennifer the other day, actually! She said she didn’t want to come to the reunion because I’m really the only person from our graduating class that she’d want to see anyway blah blah blah.” I miss the rest of it, because I’m a little stung by that. Jennifer was my best friend in 11^th grade! We rode the bus together all the way from kindergarten to senior year! She didn’t want to see me?

It suddenly dawns on me who’s talking.  I don’t know much about mean girls and mean girl tricks, but Laurel was, and apparently still is, a mean girl. I don’t know if she even really talked to Jennifer or not, but that comment, although ostensibly an aside to her story, was meant for me.  The reason our friendship deteriorated in 12^th grade was because Laurel wedged herself in between us.  The two of them became friends, then enemies, then “frenemies” before that was even a term.  Hell, Jennifer was probably a mean girl too, but she’s still one of the few people I would have liked to have seen.

9:35 pm: After trying to walk from one end of the room to the other while still avoiding all the people I don’t want to talk to, I realize I might have reached the end of what I can handle here.  People are starting to get drunk, and, if given the choice, these aren’t really the people I want to get drunk with.  I gave the reunion an hour, it made me realize how much weight I’ve gained, and now I think it’s time to quietly duck out.  Psycho ex is stationed close to the exit, though, so I end up leaving out a back door.  As I walk around the building to the parking lot, I pass Sam Benson’s van (the same one he had in high school!) and note that the windows are steamed up.  Damn, I forgot to monitor his progress!

11:48 pm: I get a text message from Matt, one of my good friends who was in a different grade than me, but I’m already asleep.  “Dude,” he texts, “We’re all at Majors! Steve and Omar heard ur in town 4 the reunion. Where the hell R U?”

Bastards.