Reunited, and it feels so good
Reunited, ’cause we understood
There’s one perfect fit
And sugar, this one is it
We both are so excited
‘Cause we’re reunited, hey, hey

Reunited, a Peaches and Herb song from my high school years. So distant from the music I preferred—Springsteen, Beatles, Thorogood, CSNY, the Stones, and of course the breaking new wave bands—but in the seventies, in the car, you listened to the radio. You listened to whatever they played. I never liked Reunited, I still don’t, but here it is, in my brain on repeat.

My high school reunion approaches. Easily the most hyped since my twentieth. Maybe more. I’m not sure why, this is my forty-fifth. It lacks the cachet of a milestone. Seems to me that four decades later, celebrations should be ten years apart. Yes, forty-five years is a long time, I haven’t seen any of these people since 2000, but c’mon guys, shouldn’t we wait until fifty? 

Anyway, I’m not going.

Oooh, I think I heard your groan from here! Yes, call me a buzzkill. A loser. A party-pooper. I’m all those things and more. And I’m even curious to see who those people from high school turned into. But I won’t pay the price. I’m not talking about the price of the event, although at $150 for dinner, that seems a little steep, especially for a nondrinker who can’t milk the open bar to get his money’s worth. I’m talking about the agony of the evening.

A few months ago, a guy named Richard emailed me out of the blue. He graduated with me, he said, did I remember him? I don’t. He was out for dinner with high school friends and my name came up. He decided to look me up. This has happened many times over the years. As a prolific blogger and regularly published columnist with a somewhat unique last name, I must be just about the easiest person to find on the internet. Richard lives about an hour away from me. Did I want to get together for drinks? I don’t.

Last month Steve emailed me. He found a tribute I wrote about a high school friend who died of ALS. Same questions as Richard, do I remember him? Do I want to get together, maybe at the reunion? Nope and nope.

Before you assume I was one of those super popular high school kids that everyone revered even though I didn’t take the time to learn anyone’s name, let me assure you, that wasn’t me. I dwelled far left-of-center on the high school popularity bell-curve. If I didn’t know someone, it’s because I assumed they had no interest in meeting me, so I never spoke with them. It’s also possible that my memories of the people I sort of knew in high school were lost in a 1995 bicycle crash that damaged my brain in ways I’m still discovering.

A few days ago, my brother texted me. “I gave your email address to Josh Casson so he could contact you about your reunion. I don’t want you to be surprised when he shows up in your inbox.” Sigh. I’m getting tired of turning people down. I wonder what they think. That I’m bitter about my high school experience, and I haven’t gotten over it? That I didn’t like them forty-five years ago, and I still don’t like them now? That my life turned out badly, and I’m embarrassed to show up? Is that last one so off the mark?

In my email exchange with Steve (the one I don’t know), I wrote: I had sort of dismissed the idea of going to the reunion, crowds and small talk aren’t really my thing. I’m sober and have symptomatic Tourette Syndrome (doubly so when anxious) so it seems like a hard night. TMI? He found me through my blog. It’s likely he already knew this.

Someone giving advice in the comments section will say, “Just go and be yourself. Who cares what those people think?” I called it agony earlier. Hyperbolic, possibly, but for those who suffer from social anxiety, mingling is miserable. And while I’ve grown more comfortable with my Tourette tics over the past few years, the thought of putting them on display in front of one hundred people already in full judgement mode seems too much to bear.

No, I’ll skip this one. Especially since I know we’ll have another reunion in just five short years: The big 5-0. I’ll make that one a priority. And after dinner, when the dancing starts, I’ll ask the DJ to play Reunited. Sorry, just kidding. Instead, I’ll request Call Me by the Blondie—the smash hit recording of my senior year from a band I still listen to today.

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