I’ve never felt the need or desire to go to a reunion. I figured, since I saw these people daily and didn’t care, why would I care now?
Enter, Facebook.
I was able to get in touch with those I liked, and even those I’d had crushes on. I made new FB friends.(still can’t think of them as.”real” friends, unless we’ve met in person.)
The five year anniversary, I was supposedly dying from cancer.
The ten year anniversary, my son’s dad wouldn’t let me go.
Then came the 20th.
Ah, 20 years since high school. I’d gotten rid of my son’s dad, a former crush had paid for my ticket, I was going!!!
It was my son’s weekend with his dad, so I had a “babysitter”. Sorta.
I’d bought two Old Navy dresses for court, one ankle length, one above the knee. Above the knee won the informal vote.
I spent the week buying appropriate purses. Just the bare minimum: phone, keys, MetroCard, face powder, and black pencil liner for eyebrow and eye liner touch ups.
I checked: no period that weekend! It was a sign!!!
I showered, shaved (hey, you never know), and was in pantyhose with the line down the back. I was in full make-up. I had everything in the tiny purse I’d bought at (don’t laugh) Claire’s. The dress was a short-sleeved wrap around.
My son’s dad hadn’t shown up to take my on for the weekend, but my ex-boyfriend/son’s best friend lived a few blocks away.
Then I got the text from my ex. My back-up sitter was sick.
First my son’s dad doesn’t show, now his sitter is sick? I quickly texted back, “that’s ok. Just don’t get too close. I’ll come home early.” (Hopefully with a high school crush in tow…)
The retun text said, “No, I’m REALLY sick. Throwing up, fever, etc. Maybe another night?”
Another night wouldn’t be my 20th reunion.
I sat on my bed.
I did my therapists breathing exercises.
I considered bringing my then eight year old son with me.
After all, my make-up was perfect. Five shades to make one. (Thank you, Fergie–same birthday, same year–for your Wet N’ Wild collection.)
The line on my stockings was perfect.
My hair was naturally wavy.
My girly purse held all it needed to.hold.
And I’d had my ticket paid for by a girl I’d had a crush on sophomore year of high school. (Which, to my mind, meant I could hug her as a “thank you”.)
“You look so pretty, Mommy,” my son said. “Don’t you have to go?”
I shook my head. Wearing heels, stockings, black thong, black bra, perfect make-up, I knew I wasn’t going. I kicked off my heels, pulled on my sleeping shirt and short shorts, and, wiping a tear from my eye, asked my son, “What are we watching tonight?”


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