Reunion restlessness

For the longest time, I was under the misconception that a certain event held every decade or so would somehow pass me by — that someone would drop the ball, forget entirely or be unable to find me.

But thanks to the wonders of technology and the networking prowess of Facebook, details are emerging and I have officially been invited, along with about 80 or so other members (out of more than 300) of the class of '99, to my 10-year high school reunion.

I got the notice about two weeks ago that a group had been started on Facebook to begin planning for the event. I resisted the invite to join for about a week, but was tempted to at least visit the page. I then found out I was one of about seven almuni who hadn't yet joined — compared to the 77 who had. And just like I was beckoned in those old high school hallways, peer pressure got the best of me and I accepted.

I laugh because I still see the same cliques involved in the planning — as if they never came unglued from one another after graduation. Many of them are Facebook 'friends' of mine — and that's probably the biggest understatement of the year. Sometimes I find the website a popularity contest: who has the most wall posts, the coolest photos, the most interesting status updates ... the closest, most meaningful relationships I have definitely don't happen there. I know, it's a good way to keep in touch. And it is, but it's almost impossible to keep up with everyone. Life is just so non-stop. But I digress...

Back to the reunion ... the reason I'm not looking forward to going is simple: I only went there for two years. I spent my freshman and sophomore years in Fort Knox, Ky., and then got ripped away from my co-Army brat friends to move to Michigan. Ironically, the house my parents bought happened to be right across the street from the one my dad and his family grew up in (and my grandparents would have been there had they not decided to move permanetly to their lake house a few hours west), which meant that my brother and I would be attending my dad's alma mater. He was ecstatic. I was going to be a Fraser Rambler.

I, on the other hand, didn't look forward to starting all over again with kids who shared construction paper, laughs and secrets on the playground and a lunchroom table in middle school. I found no way I would be able to break into their lifetime of memories and a find a place for myself.

Adjusting was difficult, but I found an outlet within my first day. I was allowed to try out for the school's top choir — they sang latin songs, did choreography and fancy shows — where makeup was done for you — and competed somewhere in the country each year — because I was in the state solo competition in Kentucky. The legendary instructor liked my voice and let me in, but a few months in realized he wasn't fond of my dancing: he moved me from being in a front-row triplet to a third-row duo. But I didn't care. I got to be picked up and spun around during one of the songs, an opportunity I didn't have in the triplet. I made it to the front row the next year.

My closest friends came from choir. We ate together, spent hours each Monday night rehearsing together and traveled to Orlando and Colorado Springs together. I tried a host of other ways to break into other areas in the school: tennis, NHS, the school newspaper, the school store with the 'popular' kids ... I even ran for student council vice president my senior year, which drew gasps from many people. How dare I try to unseat the three-year incumbent and rattle the four girls involved since freshman year??? (I gave the girl a run for her money, but ended up a class rep. I wonder if she remembers?).

A part of me wonders how many people would take note of me at a reunion — or if I was just a teeny dot on their timeline. On Facebook, the few people I say hello to now and then or catch up with are those from Kentucky who are now spread all over the country. I've attempted conversations with my fellow Fraser alums, but not much has come from them.

When I told my parents that reunion planning had begun, my mom gasped — partly because she realized how old I was and then how old that makes her. (Actually, my mom is only 50. I'll be lucky to not be in a nursing home when my one-day child is my age).

I can't believe it's been 10 years, either. I don't think I look much different, but I know internally — the emotional and spritual parts of me — I am. I've obviously grown up, yet there are days when I still feel like a child, when I still wonder what my life will one day be like. There are moments when I measure my success on the world's standards, much like I did when I was striving to be in the top of my class, to be involved in whatever it took to earn scholarships and glances from good colleges. I still live relatively close by, I don't have a glamorous job or work in a sparkling city like I planned ...

Fortunately, between my husband and one or two other trustworthy voices in my life, I shake my head, come back into focus and see the bigger picture. It's then I can see I'm on the track God set me on, the dreams he's put in my heart, the relationships he's set in motion, the blessings he's gracefully poured out and the the purpose he's given to my life — though I sometimes struggle with believing. I've acheived much more than I give myself credit for. That's the insecurity in me that flares up once in a while.

I suppose I'll muster up the will to go to the reunion, if nothing else to show off my handsome husband, the fact that I haven't gained 100 pounds and that where we are now is clearly not where we intend to stay.

And when I do, it'll be in a little black dress.... what else are they good for?