My 20 year high school reunion is this weekend. I’ve bitched at great length mentioned it before and, since it’s looming, it’s been on my mind. Plus, I got an email from an old friend who will be attending. She’s a sweetheart and consoled my insecure soul by relating that she too had to find out about it the hard way.
Yesterday, just before dashing off to the airport, she sent me a note about a Yahoo email group for our class. Wha?! Again, I felt like the ugly stepchild. The last to get asked to dance. Always stood up. Poor poor pitiful me.
Hubbo heard about it all night and said the sweetest thing ever: “I’m sorry.” I think that’s the first time he’s ever just let me rant and not tried to fix it. That’s progress, people!
Aaaanyhooters, this situation actually affected my dreams. I was part of a group that didn’t really want me. They sorta had to take me (can’t recall why) but made it clear they didn’t like me. Can you say insecure? Can you say therapy? Sheesh!
You’d think that 20 years later, I’d be over all that BS. I’d say “Nerts to them!” I’d know that they’d be really happy to hear from me. Instead, even though I was reasonably popular, I think none of them like me. I think none of them have grown like I have. I think they’re all the same petty, spiteful little beasts they were in school. It’s so ridiculous that I’m embarrassed to write it but it appears from my ranting and dreaming that this is how I feel deep down. In other words, insecure.
Now here’s the topper: I just got a Classmates.com email from a guy who went to our school for our senior year only. We made out once at our graduation party and he asked me out. I got all dolled up and waited for him to show. And waited and waited and waited. Finally, I cried. Not because my heart was broken but because I was humiliated.
And now this guy who I figured never thought of me once in the last 20 years — he obviously thought I was an ugly pig dog, after all (even though I was thin and pretty) — sends me an email. Honestly, I wanted to reach through the computer and slap his mullet-topped face for standing me up 20 years ago. Then I felt a little like crying — still do. Then I sent him a pleasant “Hey, I’m really happy to hear from you” kind of response.
Now that’s progress.