I did get through day 2 of week 3 last week, but it was dispiriting enough that I didn’t feel like writing about it. It was dispiriting because it was so hard, and I felt utterly pathetic that I can barely even slow-jog (seriously, at the speed I’m going, “trot” might be a more accurate verb) for three minutes straight. I had spent the earlier part of that evening trying on dresses for my high school reunion, which is never good for my self-esteem; trying on skirts and tops and trousers can be either neutral or even gratifying depending on how well I choose what to try on (needing to go down a size in the business-casual pants I bought a couple of weeks ago, for instance, was an unexpected little ego boost), but for some reason, dresses seem to bring out all the worst parts of my figure. I found some that fit, but none that looked good, not even the one that I bought just because it was such a pretty dress (and cheap). It’s a pretty dress on the hanger, that is; when I put it on, it looks like a nightgown (it’s a size bigger than I usually wear, since they didn’t have my size), and there was no way I was wearing it to the reunion. But the whole thing was just an exercise in frustration and feeling bad about myself, and when I got home and had a hard time on the treadmill, it sent me into a bit of a funk.
Then life, including the aforementioned reunion, got in the way, and suddenly week 3 was over without my having done day 3. It was very tempting—very, very tempting—to let the combination of laziness and frustration continue to take over and just give up, but since I had already decided last week that I would be repeating week 3, I figured I would just treat today as week 3, day 1, take 2. It was still hard, I have to say; it’s possible that I’ll be repeating week 3 more than once. But it’s done, and it wasn’t as hard as it was last week, and as always, I’m glad I did it.
My high school reunion, to which I ended up wearing an evening-ish but fairly plain black skirt and a dressy top (an outfit that turned out to be appropriate, since the majority of attendees were at the same level of dressed-up-edness), was really pretty weird. I don’t know how else to describe it; I was kind of underwhelmed, but not sorry that I went. I liked high school, for the most part, so it wasn’t trauma that kept me away from previous reunions; mostly it was geography, and to a lesser extent, a sense that even though I did enjoy it at the time, high school wasn’t something that I really needed to revisit.
I went with my friend Amy, who is the person I’ve been in continuous touch with the longest, by far (although there was someone at the reunion who I’ve known even longer—since we were 11—and with whom I went to junior high, high school, and college; it was fun to see him too). Amy and I became close friends in our freshman year and have never completely lost touch, though we hadn’t actually seen each other in person since my first wedding, 19 years ago. Going with her was a good idea; she’s outgoing, and recognized people before I did, and made it easier for me to contemplate going at all. Plus we had an extended chance to catch up, which was great; there’s an ease in being with someone you’ve known well for so long that no expanse of years can erode.
There were a few other people I was genuinely excited to see, though not as many as I’d hoped. It was a little surprising how few people remembered/recognized me, though maybe not entirely unexpected. For one thing, I didn’t have shortish red hair in high school, and the situation wasn’t helped by the fact that the organizers had put my married name on my nametag. And there were 750 people in my graduating class. Besides, after about 45 minutes, I started talking to an old friend and more or less ignoring everything else. The friend, Rachel, is someone I’ve thought of fondly many times over the years, so I was delighted to find her again. She and her then best friend, Michelle, who was also there and who I was very pleased to discover actually has an office in the same building as mine, were part of a short stretch late in my senior year and into that summer between high school and college that was oddly formative—it’s hard to describe what was so special about it, but we were parent-less for some of the time and left to our own devices, and we were at a perfect age to take in everything that New York City had to throw at us. The weather was stunning that spring and summer, and the music we listened to was all new and all great, and we lived in each other’s apartments and hit the town at all hours on the least whim, haring off to Chinatown from the Upper West Side at 1 a.m. because someone wanted noodles at Hong Fat or staying out all night dancing at Hurrah, and even now, a particular song or a warm breeze coming through the window at my family’s apartment can send me right back there. It was a strangely amazing time. But I digress.
A few different people mentioned at the reunion that the thing they remembered most about me was my taste in and passion for music, and that was gratifying. A bunch of people asked after Brian Mulligan, who was my constant (platonic) companion for much of my high school years; he and I stayed in touch until our early 30s or so, when we stopped contacting each other not out of any animosity but just out of tacit acknowledgment that we had nothing in common anymore, so I’m not sure where he is, but I think he’d be pleased to know how fondly he’s remembered by many people. And fundamentally, it was good to satisfy my curiosity about some of my classmates, and pleasing to see that most people seem to have done fine for themselves in one way or another; it was comforting somehow to see that we’ve all made it this far, 30 years on. I don’t think I’ll need any more such reassurances for a while, though. One reunion in a lifetime might be enough.