I just got back from a high school reunion. It was, as these things tend to be, bittersweet. There was a crowd of attendees, excited to see each other. There were those who couldn’t make it and others whose pictures were surrounded by candles and stars. And there were those who, for one reason or another, had decided not to come. It made me wonder why some people seek out the nostalgia while others stay far away.
As someone firmly in the former group I never considered not going. But most of us were probably already in touch with the people we had been closest to. So, about the others–was it mere curiosity about what the prom queen looks like now? (She looks great, actually.) Or what happened to the boy and girl “most likely to succeed”? He wasn’t there, but she has the happy look of someone with a satisfying life. What exactly had we come there for?
Those of us in the room on Friday night were a self-selected group. We were the ones whom life may have knocked around a little but who felt we looked not too much the worse for wear. We were the ones who felt pretty much ok with the way things had turned out. And we were the ones who couldn’t imagine not wanting to reconnect with our early days and the people who shared them. They were the ones who knew us “when” and who still remembered all those old references no one else would know.
I don’t tend to live in the past, but there is something I can’t resist about going back in time. It feels like a way of honoring the years, one of those marker moments when we can stop and acknowledge that there may be hopes and dreams that have fallen away, but we do have accomplishments we are proud of. Where we started out is part of who we are, its mark indelible on us all these years later.
So, my fellow Dynamiters (ok, it’s a long story), seeing you again was a wonderful treat. Those burgers and fries at the Charcoal Pit, though, not so much.