What was I doing here? Walking into the Metropolitan Ballroom suddenly felt scary, and I asked myself why I was attending my high school class reunion.
What can you say about high school reunions… women go on starvation diets for them…men get dragged by spouses to them, and some people avoid them. I fit in the last category.
My Roosevelt High class graduated almost 800 students, so my experience hadn’t been flavored by the closeness of a small group, but when my 50th loomed ahead, my friend Sandy somehow maneuvered me into going.
She and two other friends and I stayed in the same hotel and went to the fete as a group.
Now as we entered the festivities, I wasn’t sure the whole thing was such a good idea, especially when I realized that my girlfriends had all scattered. I peered through the throng of old people and saw them… across the room hugging old acquaintances.
So. I was on my own. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath and plunged into the fray, recognizing absolutely no one in this huge group of gray, white and artificially colored heads.
Up to the registration table I went. “Hello, Joan,” one of the ladies greeted me heartily. How does she know me, I thought, smiling at the complete stranger.
“Hi…. uh…” I had the good sense to look at her nametag… ”Oh hi, Sandy,” I managed to squeak (there were lots of Sandys in my class) and matched the young, 18-yearold face I remembered with the woman sitting behind the table. Of course I knew her. We had gone through junior high and high school together.
From that point on, the evening became an interesting and sometimes surprising walk back in time. A pleasantfaced woman with a warm smile came up to me and announced she was Naomi, my long-lost neighborhood friend, and we spent hours remembering how we played jungle on my swing set and paper dolls in my mother’s flower garden. We elicited memories from each other we’d both forgotten.
I ran into a fifth grade pal with whom I’d shared Brownies and Girl Scout memories.
Another friend, a softspoken girl who’d suffered from arthritis as a teenager, had moved to California and never returned. She told me that her arthritis disappeared, as did her timidity.
The evening proceeded pleasantly and although I had planned to slip away early after the “program,” I found myself lingering and talking to people. Fifties music blared from the dance floor, but most people preferred to mingle.
Finally, three hours later than planned, I called it a night.
But I had just settled in my room for a good night’s sleep when my three good high school pals who were staying in the hotel room next to mine banged on my door and persuaded me to hang out with them in their room
The evening ended with an “old lady” slumber party as we reminisced about the youthful all night non-slumber parties we’d once had.
I was only able to stay awake until 1 a.m.
When it was all over, I recognized that I’d been lucky enough to have a wonderful experience, one difficult to analyze. It had been a richly rewarding walk back in time.
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