Because four years isn't nearly enough time
Edit to Add: COUGH, COUGH. Ahem. Especially that fourth category, unless you are voting for Heather Anne, and then I guess that's ok.
“The past is strapped to our backs. We do not have to see it; we can always feel it.” ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960
If there were a group called Over thinkers Anonymous (OA™); I would be its President with much fanfare and praise for those with the uncanny ability to think about things until they become obsessed in hopes for preparing for every single outcome possible. It’s a wonder that I didn’t do well in math given my propensity to figure out the probability of all things to come. Which brings me to why I’m suddenly obsessed with my ten year high school reunion. “But surely she jests” you scoff “For she’s a mere babe”. True, yes. My ten year high school reunion will be in 2011. But I feel like I must have adequate time to prepare for such a thing. I need something to be proud of and talk about despite how well I can hold my liquor.
Thus the reason for during those rare occasions home, I tend to shy away from any location where I might run into someone from high school, because then I might be forced to speak in coherent sentences with proper structuring. And God forbid, I pepper my speech with the ‘f’ word and my thoughts on Malbec, because I really have nothing else to say. Not necessarily because nothing is going on but because…well…I just don’t know what to say to these people, short of ‘durrrrr’, which is the primary reason for moving 400 plus miles away to a city where I have my own (relatively) happy life.
Fast forward to a random Sunday a few weeks ago, I was headed towards Dunkin Donuts (for coffee) after the gym. I’m a Dunkin Donuts whore from way back in the day, when I used to skip math class and head over to the closest DD in my minivan to smoke Marlboro lights and procure hazelnut coffee. A rebel, I tell you. So while headed to the Dunkin Donuts, looking disheveled (natch) I looked up and saw a familiar face. The face of someone with whom I had spent hours with in the library of Guilderland High School, commiserating over our disdain for Honors English and his disdain for Hillary Clinton and well, there was that time he came out of the closet. But there, he was, standing at the door of Dunkin Donuts in DC staring back at me. And I was in lycra and sporting a pseudo fro held up with a headband (Men of DC: Call me!) and so I had to endure small talk dressed as such, and laden not with spontaneous ‘fucks’ but with ‘durrrr…donuts…Albany’ (Men of DC: I’m a great conversationalist, to boot!)
Fast forward again to a random Monday night, Columbus Day in fact, during a quickie trip to the Urban Outfitters in Gallery Place. I was hot and sweaty in cashmere and oily because my t-zone hates me after and frizzy hair because my hair hates me…oh, about 24/7. And it was during this quickie trip that the line was 30 people deep and there was one lone employee at the register. Up at the front was a girl purchasing 450 items including – and I’m loathe to write this – leggings. Green leggings. So I am now sweaty and annoyed and oily and frizzy. The lo and behold the girl at the front of the line whips around and stares right at me. My heart skips a beat with the recognition of another! Person! From! High school! And I quickly put my head down in deep prayer of hope that she won’t realize that it’s me, to which she yells out “HEATHER!” To which I reply with a meek “hey” with that added oompf of “oh holy mother fucker”. And I cringe and want to curl up in a ball and forget about my fabulous sweaters. But I stick it out through small talk and exchanging of cards and me whimpering inside.
You see the problem with all of this is that I wasn’t cool in high school and have never been cool. I am friends with cool people, but I? I am as cool as Velcro sneakers and aquanet, not that I was actually alive for the advent of aquanet, but you get my point. And so to see people from high school in my territory gives me hives and makes me want to die a little inside. Not because it was such torture and the teen angst, though I did listen to a lot of Greenday, it’s because my brain doesn’t compute. It doesn’t understand that high school was over
So! I have four(ish) years to further analyze and obsess, invest in Murad skin care and teach my hair to lay the fuck down already. And adding a few more Coach bags to the collection couldn’t hurt.
Labels: Socially awkward Barbie™