I went to my 10-year High School Reunion this past weekend. I traversed down to my former home of San Antonio, TX for the affair.
Hesitation, trepidation, apathy and so many other feelings ran amok inside my mind leading up to the event. Who would I see? Would I want to see them? Would they want to see me? Would I recognize everyone? Do I even care? Do they care? Is my job cooler than theirs? Did they get fat? Am I trying to prove something?
With zero and infinite expectations, I went through with it. I went shopping at North Park before my trek. I bought the perfect shirt. The perfect jeans. The new cologne. I was staying at the right hotel (around the corner and 4-diamond). I planned on getting good and drunk with some of my old HS friends. Screw the baby talk I had stamped on my proverbial mental forefront. Let’s get drunk and talk about crazy HS times.
I rolled up, and the first people I see? The former Prom Queen and her best friend. I didn’t recognize them. They had gained more than a few pounds, and not in a sultry way. And who next? oooohh. How about my Senior Prom Date? Oh yes, the one I danced with once and ditched because I thought she was a bitch, and I was in a fight with the Methodist Mafia? (She just moved to NY with her hairless-arm husband, and is recording an album) Hugs ensued. Apparently, her memory of that prom had been glossed over for the positive.
From there, it was an endless stream of the following: 1. People I liked (and hugged and spoke to a bit) 2. People I didn’t recognize 3. People who recognized me, but I didn’t recognize them 4. People I recognized, but I’d rather suck goat balls than talk with and 5. People I gave a casual wave, and we’d say hello if our proximity required it and finally, 6. People I very much did recognize, but they got gloriously fat.
I spent most of the night glued to one of my HS best friends and her husband. She hadn’t changed a bit, which made me exceptionally happy. While she shared her encounters since we last saw each other (at her wedding), I watched the people around me. The old cliques that still clicked. The random “others” that were friends with everyone. I wondered where I fit into the mix.
But isn’t that what High School is all about? Where do I belong? The answer hit me today. It was so much self-awareness, I nearly threw up. I had plenty of friends in high school. Most of the school knew me. I was super involved. And, I was an asshole. Yes, I was a High School Asshole.
Some of you may be thinking, “You were an asshole? Don’t you mean you are an asshole?” Well fuck you very much, and the crusty vajayjay that birthed you. But yes, both may be true. However, back in High School, I was a different species of Asshole.
I was the boy that told the popular dancer that she should shave her mustache.
I was the boy who scaled the fence with his friends and wrote POOP all over the windows.
I was the boy who staged a coo against the forces of the Methodist Mafia.
I was the boy who dumped TB right before the Homecoming Dance because she was boring, and then proceeded to take my friend Alli, and then showed up at the same after-party where TB was, even though she didn’t even go to the dance.
I was the boy who had so many male-mums at homecoming, I couldn’t put on my backpack.
I was the boy who didn’t recognize the fact that he was an asshole.
I was the boy who was told by his first (and at the time) only friend at a brand new high school that he was too nice for her to be friends with, and apparently this damaged my subconscious mind, so it decided to subtlety prove her wrong for two and a half years.
I was the boy who won best eyes, best special features (dimples) and was nicknamed “Prince Ryan”.
Douche. Seriously.
I can’t defend myself. I can only recognize and correct. I did good too. I volunteered A LOT. I worked with kids. I was a PAL. I was a young HS spoiled G/T kid who didn’t know what to do with himself. I started a Film Society. I won awards. I didn’t have a fucking clue who I was.
If I could, I’d have a coffee with my HS-self. I’d give him some advice. I’d tell him not to worry about impressing anyone. I’d tell him to be confident and strong. I’d tell him not to worry about the gay thing, it would work out, and that he should have slept with CL instead of just making out with him in the firehouse (because damn, CL was HOT). But most importantly, I would tell him to be careful with people’s feelings. Be careful not to inflict hurt carelessly or without reason. Try to be a balanced person. And that it’s okay not to be “From Anywhere”. You can be a Nowhere Boy and not worry about it. You can make home be everywhere and nowhere.
And maybe he would tell 20-something, Advertising-fueled me the same thing. And maybe I would listen.
Or maybe I wouldn’t. But damn, I’ll try.
-Ry
Tales of Goodness and Light 