Some Enchanted Evening Word Count: 717

One Enchanted Evening

I recently attended my 50th high school reunion. Besides feeling older than that gnarled old nun that I’d had for American History, I was sure that nobody would recognize me. I had been part of the heyday of Catholic schools. My classmates had numbered in the six-hundreds. I had been smart, but shy and awkward. I imagined myself at the reunion, a quiet observer, taking in the action.

My friends insisted that I had to go. Besides, as Rosemary said, “If you live long enough for your 50th, then you have to go and see who’s still alive.” I sent in a check for the tickets – my husband, always a good sport, agreed to go. Then I bought a rather sexy dress, I thought, got a good tan, lost 20 pounds and had my hair highlighted.

As we entered the gymnasium, we picked up name tags with our yearbook pictures printed beside our name and current place of residence. “There’s a conversation starter,” I thought. “Well, Tim, what caused you to move to West Virginia?” So far, I hadn’t recognized anyone.

My husband said, “You’re the best looking woman in the room.” He often says things like this; as I said he’s a good sport and I’ve been married to him for 45 years.

As he went to get drinks and appetizers, I checked out the display tables. Suddenly, I heard someone call my name. As I turned, I saw a short, curly-haired woman, who said, “Thank God. You are the only person I recognize! I didn’t think I’d know anyone!”
She’d been in my homeroom. She was as worried about recognition as I had been.
I had thought she was the “popular” one. I was now on alert. Maybe things were now different. There was no time for deep exploration here. She and I moved on to the salad table. She had made a difference in my life.

The most interesting display was the yearbook display of those who had “passed.”
“Oh, no. Not him/her.” My best friend, of course, was there. I knew that. Otherwise, I was amazed to see nearly one hundred out of six hundred were gone. Suddenly, I felt very, very fortunate to be alive.

‘Okay,” said I to myself, “ I speak three languages; I have a Ph.D.; I’ve been a Corporate Vice-President; I’ve had a life; I know how to work a room.” I got going.

I started working from the back to the front of the room. I looked at all of the yearbook name tags. “Oh, I remember you!” I said.

“Oh, I remember you,” they would say, “ You sat in front of me in History, Freshman English, Senior Latin, etc.” Yes, of course.

I decided to work the room. There was the guy I had in a mad crush on. He had a doctorate from a State University and had been the Superintendent of Catholic Schools. I said, “ Congratulations, but I am no longer a Catholic. I think Catholic Schools are inferior now.” He had a double take. Didn’t remember me. Didn’t know what to make of the Catholic thing.”

There was the guy who was the smartest in the class. He is now a Pediatrician and wore a black T-shirt and Jeans. “Cool, “ I said. “Hey,” he said.

Then came the Coup. One of the “Mean Girls” came up to me, accompanied by two of her minions. “You’ve had work done. You look too young to be a part of my class, “ she declared. I was astounded. “No, I said, “ I just have my mother’s skin.”

“” Yes, it was Auburn. Most people don’t remember that.” She moved on.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“ You’ve turned out well.” Said one man who had been part of my Elementary School.

Well, I just cut loose. I discovered that fifty years past high school, people are who they are. The ones who are just like high school are the stunted ones. The ones who have never moved on.

I had moved on. Really on. Maybe to another planet. It relieved me of a burden. A burden of the past. I was now really free. I can fly.