During the latter half of my junior year in high school it dawned on me that my resume for college resembled my love life: it lacked recommendations, was sparsely filled and didn’t impress anyone.
Since college was in my future I got proactive, and announced my campaign for senior class president. The office would put a shine on my resume, require only a modicum of effort and presumably be a breeze if I avoided a sex scandal, which I would have encouraged at that point in my life.
Following a whirlwind campaign I bested four challengers and as president during my senior year oversaw a winning float, coached the Powderpuff football team to victory, “organized” the prom and spoke at graduation. In the aftermath of my tenure I was content with my performance, and besides a mock reelection campaign I tried to get my brother to orchestrate, was ready to move on and forget the pressures of command.
Except I wasn’t able to just walk away. Five years later, when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in.
In this case the “they” are my classmates, who have recently been berating me about our upcoming five-year reunion. (That’s a little misleading, since “upcoming” would imply that someone is dutifully working on something for the summer.)
When I was president it had been suggested to me that in the future it would be my responsibility to organize reunions, but I assumed someone more responsible would seize the reins or that this possibility was just a ruse to spur my resignation in lieu of a coup d’état.
To be honest, in the past I was excited about a future reunion, albeit one that wouldn’t require me to do anything except show up. My enthusiasm stemmed from a romanticized view of high school that developed far too early and led me to believe a reunion would be a magical experience akin to the false promise of prom, homecoming and every other instance where I thought I might get laid.
My mom suggested assembling a task force to tackle the reunion challenge. Others suggested approaching the school about securing funds that were supposedly put aside for this occasion. Someone else said, “Reunions suck, and I don’t know who you are, so leave my house or I’m calling the police.” So now I’m like a rudderless ship adrift at sea, with no destination in mind and no idea how to get there even if I did. A lighthouse of sorts did it present itself in the form of a chance encounter with one of my classmates, which led me to believe I should organize a reunion, but that positive experience was offset by the gut wrenching awkwardness of another random run-in the next night.
Regardless of whether I want to have a reunion, the tedious work involved is stifling my desire and serving as an overwhelming deterrent. For that reason I’ll probably just treat this high school reunion like a high school homework assignment, in that I’ll wait until the last second and hope things come together. Either that or I’ll hope for a snow day.
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