25th High School Reunion

I can’t remember the last quiet moment I had to write anything more than a check to the babysitter. Been working, been shelling out half my pay to next-door neighbor’s recent college grad daughter to watch kids while I work. Monday their “summer camp” starts and my pay-rate goes back up. Except that I don’t really want to work so much. I want to paint. Why does this seem to be too much to ask, always? Work I will, tho. It is what must be done. It will be done. On earth, as it is in heaven.

For some crazy-ass reason I went to my 25th high school reunion tonight. Mainly chatted with people I’m already on semi-regular social terms with over the past 25 years, probably would have chatted with more had I ingested alcohol, which I didn’t, since I had to drive a bit of a distance home, in the dark. I don’t like driving at night. Anyway, the compulsion to go was there, so I went. Tried not to make too much eye contact with too many peeps, didn’t want to make a lick of extra small-talk than I was already being forced to. The pleasant surprise of the evening were a few intelligent, funny chats with the first boy I ever kissed. Seventeen years old, a little champagne, blissfully fantastic first kiss. Nothing happened afterward, just that. I believe Michael Jackson had something to do with it, too, along with being tipsy for the first time. Anyhoo, it was an easy conversation to get back into (not a convo about kissing, but just life), and this person I had not been in touch with for over 25 years proved to be delightful, still, sans teenage nervousness and anxiety. I probably lack those attractive traits now, too. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself. Whatever, dude.

Came home happy to see my way-hot husband, not worried about the weird cliques that do or don’t populate the cinder block, high-school halls. What a relief to be a grown up! Don’t miss high school one bit. Middle age, you are my friend.

I miss you, 20fingers, 20toes. I want us to start spending more time together. I don’t like how we’re drifting apart…

1 Comment

  1. I don’t like how you’re drifting apart, either! I needs me some Beenie and Mimi stories.
    On the other hand, “Except that I don’t really want to work so much. I want to paint. Why does this seem to be too much to ask, always?” resonnates with me, you don’t know how much.
    Having a new existential crisis about priorities and hostage-situations and art and the like. I’m not a big fan of those weeks where I am squirming in my own skin, wondering which of the aliens within will win and inhabit my body for the next year. The go-getter? The artist? The Eeyore? But the reality that sits on my chest and keeps all the gremlins inside is the “parent” me. Nothing else left, I guess, with enough will to fight her off.
    Or buy her off, to be more accurate.
    25th, eh? Kudos. Not going to my 20th this year. Despise those people, three or four excluded (and regularly conversed with.)
    Glad your kisser was a good conversation. That’s a pleasant surprise to carry around for a few weeks, no?

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