NO GO

   I am not going to the Edsel Ford Class of 1975 High School Reunion.

   Not for the reasons usually associated with bagging a class reunion.

   I do not look significantly worse than I did in 1975.  I have aged horribly, but so has every other fifty-eight year old geezer I have laid baggy eyes on.  I have actually improved in a lot of physical respects, not a great accomplishment considering that my graduation photo is very Meat Loaf like (singer or dinner entree, your pick) .

   My personal life is not a mess either.  I have been married for thirty-four years to Andrea, a “fox” as we used to say back in the day.  We have three kids who have never been brought home in the back of a police car.

   While not rich, we are doing OK (high praise indeed).  Modest acquisitions, but using what we have to put two kids through college and working on our third.  We are happy to have a nice patio to have drinks on while playing games.  Simple.

   I did not become a writer (if you are this far into the story, you already know that).  I work with my younger brother and best friend, Tony, at the business my Dad started a long time ago.  Lots of ups and downs, but oddly proud to keep chugging along through tough economic times, helping others stay employed.

   So why not go?

   I hated high school.  I was shitty at it.  Consumed with angst, uncertainty, fear.  It and I were miserable.  Why would I want to re-live that period of time?

   Picturing my cocktail party topics of discussion:

   “Remember when I was too insecure to go on a date, so I got stoned and ate instead?

   “Remember when I was uncertain of who I was, so I said something hurtful about you to make me feel better?”

   “Remember when I mistook individuality for weirdness and ignored or belittled you?”

   Ticket sales for this event are moving slowly, as noted on the Facebook page devoted to our graduating class.  A post from the organizer of the reunion exhorts a group of fellow grads who have not yet bought tickets to do so.  The list is a rundown of twenty or so popular kids from our class.  

  What about the other ninety-five percent?  I get it, you can’t list everyone, and he probably chose people he hung with or wanted to see.  But it still evokes feelings of exclusion for those not listed.  That feeling, along with a host of other negatives possibly helped define four years spent at Edsel Ford.  

   It does for me.  

  If high school was the best four years of your life, good for you.  It wasn’t for me.  I will spend that Saturday night in August the way I have spent pretty much every Saturday for the past thirty-four years.  With my wife at my side, a drink in my hand, playing cards and enjoying a laugh.

Cheers!  Jim