High School Class Reunions: A Special Form of Torture

The list of things I would do to avoid my high school reunion is so voluminous it is tough to fit even on the internet: I would rather pluck my pubes out one by one. Gargle hydrochloric acid. Listen to Bill Belichick give a lecture about ethics in sports. Be Trump's toupee maker.

End of rant. Sort of.

I am well aware of the conventional, skewed interpretation of a high school reunion: it is a rare, cherished opportunity to rekindle old friendships, and see people you care about but have somehow lost touch with. Puh-lease. You keep in touch with people you truly care about. Anyone that was a true high school friend, you are still in touch with, and have seen and will see, even if there is no high school reunion.

Of course, no one can keep in touch with everyone, and it could be argued that there are casual acquaintances you didn't keep in touch with but still care about.

Anything's possible, perhaps.

I stayed young at heart, so don't want to be around old friends that have grown old at heart. I want to remember my old friends the way they were, not see what they are. In their youth, people's dreams lay before them like an open horizon. They are fit, energetic, idealistic, believe in the world. Twenty years later, dreams lay by the wayside, and people are fatter, more jaded, withering. In high school most everyone has some bold dream, and is pursuing it, no matter how improbable. In high school, anyone you know might still become an NFL QB, model, singer, or the next Donald Trump. Then you see them at their reunion, married but rarely in love, drowning in debt, with two average kids who they consider prodigies.

If I was a billionaire, I'd give a million dollars to the first person I met who told me there was nothing special about their children. What's he going to be when he grows up? Average. Another lemming. Two million if he answered the question by braying like a sheep. My son isn't going to make a difference, he's going to be one of the gutless masses, consume mindlessly and heedlessly, watch far too much TV, eat junk food, probably need a bypass by 40. And your kid?

Am I just bitter or jaded? No. And even if I was, that doesn't mea
I'm wrong. I hope life is a big ice cream sundae for all my high school classmates, but I don't want to see the sundae, or them. Sometimes there is dignity in turning away from a pitiful sight, or never looking at it in the first place. Sometimes it is much more satisfying to leave the past where it belongs. Which is while I'll be staying at home on the couch and scratching my balls instead of attending my high school reunion.