10 years ago, give or take a couple of weeks, I graduated from high school. I wore a pretty white dress and walked down South Lawn next to my dearest Poopyhead. People spoke, sang songs, giggled. Some nervously speculated whether their diploma-holder folders would actually contain diplomas. Afterward, relatives marked our cheeks with lipstick and gave us bear hugs. After that, I headed off to the Poopyhead house, did things an American 17-year-old isn't supposed to do, and started the rest of my life. Which hasn't proceeded quite the way I thought it would, but...that's life. Full of detours.
Last weekend, I went to my 10-year high school reunion. Which also didn't proceed exactly how I thought it would. As soon as we walked up South Lawn, girls started squealing and lunging for hugs, and I started freaking OUT. So many people, it was too overwhelming. So, we retreated back to the Poops's house after a couple of hours, and stayed there instead of going to the party. Now, I wish I had gone. People were asking about me, there were people I wanted to see, I could have just stayed for an hour or so, and what's an hour out my life? But, I was scared. I didn't really believe that people would want to see me. I felt awkward and weird and just wanted to hide from the experience. I should have gone. Shoulda coulda woulda.
Also, Poops told me that she's moving to Portland, Oregon this summer, which is cool for her, but makes me sad. So, I cried for a good long time after we dropped her and K. off at Prospect Park. Actually, I guess I cried for a lot of things. Regrets and faraway friends and the life that hasn't gone the way I thought it would. I won't dwell on it, though.
The next reunion is less than five years away, after all.