The Graduate

I graduated from high school in June 1963. I was tall and thin, and wore my very blonde hair long. It is fifty years later and I am still tall, not at all thin, and wear my rapidly whitening hair long. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

We have a class reunion person, a gal who seems to think the greatest activity in the world is staying in touch with people from “our class” and then arranging reunions so we can attend and wonder who the heck that person is! Because I’m single, it’s awkward to attend the more formal functions, so I did opt for the Sunday afternoon barbeque at the 45th reunion – and sort of recognized a few people, actually knew two people, and had no clue who the others were, nor what their lifetime accomplishments were. No one was impressed with my career as a classroom teacher, the reaction akin to the old saw “those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach.” I’m proud that I spent thirty-five years in front of a podium at both the high school and the college levels. I made a contribution to society that didn’t net much in financial and/or societal returns, but I know that many of “my” students have gone on to live productive lives.

The 50th reunion is looming large, coincidentally in the same time frame as my cataract surgery. I’m not enthusiastic about attending this event, not even the barbeque, and I can use my surgery as a reason not to make the drive and socialize with people I barely remember and with whom I share so little personal or professional history. The reunion gal, however, wants a huge turn-out, so she’s on every level of social media hyping the event and haranguing us to attend.

The invitations are in the mail, so I have to make a decision: should I go, or should I stay ... home.