Thanks to your thirty-two Facebook messages, I am now quite aware that it’s been ten years since we departed the hallowed halls of Eastlake. Tradition calls for marking that in some way, I suppose. You have decided that way shall be a $40/ticket cocktail hour with my fellow alums, while I…
I have decided to dance a jig on the grave of my high school career and never think of it again. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like Eastlake was torture. You were all perfectly nice to me, except for that one time in ninth grade when Steven Belch called my boobs fat, and I was relatively well-known and liked. It’s just that…high school was lame, my dears. So painfully lame! To my recollection, it was filled with relationship drama, people who didn’t always apply deodorant, and the wearing of entirely too much burnt orange. I look so much better in a nice blush pink.
Let’s be honest, high school reunions serve one time-honored purpose: to let everyone know what you’ve been doing with the last decade of your life and bask in their envy. Darlings, I enjoy a good envy bask as much as the next girl, but we have Facebook now! I don’t need to feign enjoyment in Kyle HerpesChin’s conversation about insurance sales, for him to know I have four fancy schmancy degrees. Suffering through Maggie Ho’s retelling of her fifth childbirth is unnecessary, as I’ve seen all of her Facebook photos, including that ill-advised one of her
pee stick pregnancy test. I know what’s happening in your lives, lieblings, and I don’t care.
You’re shocked. That’s understandable, but we just put in new blog carpet, so do contain your horrified meltdown. It’s not that I dislike you, only that I’m benignly disinterested in you. We were forced together for four years of public school, then set free into the world. Those of you whom I really cared about, I’ve stayed friends with. We talk, we get together on holidays, and we gossip about the rest of you. I know what’s happening, you know what’s happening, so why suffer through weak cocktails and awkward small talk? That sounds more painful than our senior year performance of West Side Story! (Which is saying something, as my only lines consisted of “Ooo” and “Ooo-bi-lee-oo,” followed by ditzy and anti-feminist giggling.) If I wanted such torture, I’d join the Junior League. At least, they offer fancy dinner parties!
Friends of mine are attending and perfectly excited to do so. I don’t know where they obtained those rosy lenses through which to view our time at Eastlake, but I haven’t invested in any yet. You’re lovely people, but I have better things to do with the weekend of August 10th. Expressing my dog’s anal glands, perhaps.
So, no. I will not be reuniting with you. Check my Scantron in the negative! I hope you’re all having lovely lives—with the possible exception of Steve Belch and his amusingly receding hairline—and are as happy as General Sherman with flame thrower. Do not miss me or speculate on my absence! If I’ve forgotten enough of the early 2000s by then, I will see you at our twentieth reunion.
Don’t bet your mobile phone accessories store on it.
Love In The Impersonal Sense,
Miss Grace O’Kelly, Class of ’03