Feeling Out-Classed

I had a verrrry scarrrry e-mail in my inbox yesterday. Actually, the e-mail itself wasn’t really THAT scary, I guess what was scary was the impending event it referred to.

The e-mail in question came from the alumni association of my high school. And it was pretty nonthreatening, until I read the part that said “Class of 1986 Reunion now in the planning process. Contact Annie Alumnae-Nowmarried for more info.” (Ok, so I took some liberties with the contact’s name, but you get the idea.) As I’m sure you’ve already figured out, I am a member of said Class of 1986. And since it is already the end of April, and I had received nothing either via e-mail, snail mail, or voice mail regarding a 20 year reunion, I figured our class was too lazy to organize one and that was that. Guess I was wrong. Our class apparently isn’t lazy, just a bit slow.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not totally adverse to reunions. I enjoy reconnecting with old friends and seeing who’s been doing what. I went to my ten year reunion and had a pretty good time. Saw some old friends, and laughed at high school memories. But that was TEN YEARS AGO. Now, it is TWENTY. At twenty year reunions, people expect big things from you. You know, marriages, divorces, lots of kids, hugely successful careers, yadda yadda yadda. ESPECIALLY when said reunion is involving an all-girls Catholic high school. Because as we all know, lots of women are catty and superficial and just DYING to find someone who “never made it.” Someone who never got the huge house in the burbs with the three-car garage, the wealthy husband who let them give up their successful career that they worked SO HARD getting a degree for so they could stay home and raise their perfect children, the fulfilling volunteer work with the community… someone, in other words, like yours truly.

See, back in high school, I was the girl who pretty much got along with everyone. I wasn’t with the “popular” crowd, but they knew me by name regardless. I was an honor student, even though I tended to fall asleep during class. I was the type of person who was a real people-pleaser, wanting to make people laugh (although definitely NOT a class-clown type), willing to lend a shoulder to cry on, or agree wholeheartedly with whatever it was a friend felt strongly about, be it a boyfriend who turned out to be a jerk or a teacher who graded unfairly. I may have drank in high school, but I was sooooo against illegal drugs (Late bloomer – see TBOTE. Heh.). It was pretty much assumed that I would graduate, go to the Big Ten University I was accepted to (early admission), and continue my life in a pretty successful manner. (Insert annoying buzzer noise here) WRONG!!!

As a select few from the tenth reunion found out, I didn’t exactly finish college. Ever. Actually, I didn’t exactly finish even the first year. But I still managed to land a job as a paralegal. And no (amused laughter), I still never found “The One.” Still single. Happy, of course. Yes, I have a daughter, but her father’s not in the picture. Oh, NO, I never married HIM! See, that’s a really long story, there… No, thank you, I don’t drink. Minor problem with some drugs for a while there (shocked looks – YOU??? - yes, ME!) but I’m clean now. Still living in the city, yep, in the neighborhood. As a matter of fact, still at home for the time being. With mom. Money’s kind of tight now, you see… Oh, I’m SURE things are going to change soon! Big future for me!! Just wait until the NEXT reunion!

Sheeee-it. The next reunion is here. And what’s changed? Let’s see, I do own a condo in the burbs, that’s a plus, I guess… Oh, and I do drink now (still no drugs, of course), which may come in pretty handy at this here reunion… But still a paralegal, still a single mom, still no man in sight. Granted, I don’t really have a problem with my life per se, I mean, sure I’d like to have a husband, but I don’t want to settle, either, and my job (although run by Satan) is lucrative enough to keep my head above water all by myself. I have a beautiful daughter and two awesome cats, and lots of good friends. But I don’t have what’s expected of me.

Which really sucks. I want to sashay in (I’ve always wanted to “sashay,” ever since Ru Paul suggested it) in a knockout casual-chic dress (which reminds me, I also traded in my slim, youthful figure for a middle-aged “full-figure”), gorgeous, youthful-looking yet distinguished husband on my arm, able to talk about my upcoming novel and the last five that made the Times bestseller list, and gushing about my perfect daughter. (Well, I can still gush about Lexie, at least...!) I want to prove that I have become somebody, that I am worthy of respect and admiration and maybe a tad bit of jealousy. Instead, I’ll probably creep in, wearing something I hope doesn’t make my ass look even bigger than it is, and try to make my life look more interesting than it really is while I try not to gag listening to the success stories around me.

And before you imply that it can’t be all that bad, I would like to point out that I have checked out classmates.com and found only like one other girl in my class who doesn’t have a hyphenated last name – and I found out at the last reunion that she is gay. (So is one of our old gym teachers, but that’s irrelevant.) I, however, am NOT gay, and therefore am apparently the least desirable girl in our whole class – judging by the fact that I am the ONLY one never married. (Ok, so maybe there are one or two more, but they probably won’t even show up.) And some moron girl who I kind of remember already beat me to the punch in the book biz, too – according to the Alumnae News she has published some stupid “How to Sell Stuff on the Internet” book or something and is a role model to moms everywhere, apparently. Heck there’s also a girl I graduated with who was on last season’s “Amazing Race!” (Yes, she was one of the “Pink Ladies” – the obnoxious sisters that didn’t win.) This really sucks.

But I will probably go. Hopefully I will have fun, maybe a few drinks will let me relax and not worry so much about the judgment I am pretty sure will occur. Maybe no one will care that I am who I am, and not some Desperate Housewife or Jet Setter or Corporate Cutie. Maybe there will be some people who will just be happy to see me, Dasi, and the hell with all the bells and whistles. We’ll see. And by the next reunion? I’ll have my book done and probably be a brazillianaire. So ha!