My High School Reunion

At 7:50 p.m. on a Friday night, I sat second-guessing myself at a Charlotte bar. I waited nervously, drinking a pint of ice water, and wondered how I had gotten into this mess.

I had graduated high school in 2004, thinking that I’d never look back on what, at the time, I considered to be some sort of gulag. I went to prep school. I was a punk. And it’s not that I was a bad kid, or didn’t perform well in my classes, only that I – without recognizing that anybody else might feel the same way – felt out of place.

So nobody was as surprised as I was when, upon receiving notification of a five-year reunion, it actually seemed like it might be a good idea.

My 17 year-old self would kick my ass.

The days ahead of the decision were fraught with anxiety and awkward jokes delivered via Twitter. “List of HS reunion RSVPs is publicly visible. I’m not too proud to admit that seeing who else is going is influencing whether I go,” read one tweet.

After weeks of deliberation, checking the guest list over and over and weighing the pros and cons, I made a decision. I would attend my five-year high school reunion, the first such gathering in my still-young life.

I figured that at worst, I could leave early, and at best it’d make for a good story. I never imagined I’d enjoy it.

I tweeted my decision: “HS Reunion update. I am officially registered. Feel like I’m jumping into a shark tank with a seal-flavored wetsuit.”

And when the day came, I went.

The event was at Tyber Creek Pub in South End, in the bar’s upstairs lounge: a room large enough to hold a class as small as mine, plus leave space for pool tables, and darts to be mostly neglected. I arrived early. And I sat by myself at the bar drinking ice water for 10 excruciating minutes.

Eventually people began to trickle in. An old friend arrived, boyfriend in tow, and we started catching up. Others filed into the room as we began to quietly ignore each other. I flipped open my phone and started tweeting.

“Trying to figure out subtle ways to read nametags,” I wrote. It’s remarkable how you can forget people over a few years of not seeing them, even if they look mostly the same.

The first hour felt like five. Awkward sidelong glances and insular conversations slowly built, separately from each other. There was no reuniting going on, merely continued conversations among friends who had arrived together.

But by hour two, the refreshments seemed to have dissolved the walls. Inside jokes turned to, “What have you been doing with your life?” as polite smiles and stiff side-hugs offered the friendly touch that was much warmer than, or unthinkable, five years before.

Once the ice was broken, things moved much more smoothly. Conversation was easy. I found myself genuinely interested in the lives of these lost acquaintances. They seemed interested in me. The smallest of talk, perhaps, but sometimes that’s what you want. Why order an entrée when you can fill up on the rolls?

They’d tell of their new careers – teachers, financial analysts, software engineers, whatever. I’d mention my work as a music critic. They’d invariably ask what my favorite band is. I’d pause, stammer and claim that wasn’t a fair question. We both knew they were looking either for a recommendation or for validation of their own tastes. I like weirdo heavy metal, they like Dave Matthews Band. That’s not even apples and oranges, it’s apples and spaceships. Quick change of subject, and then conversation spent. We’d glance around for somebody new to talk to. “Great to see you,” we’d say, smile and nod and part ways. But we’d leave the conversation feeling entirely pleasant about the exchange, even if the specifics of it had begun to dissolve before we’d even turned around.

And we’re still not Facebook friends.

As expected, there were a few marriages and engagements. The marrieds and betrothed felt it their duty to offer relationship advice to the daters and the singles. We daters and singles took it upon ourselves to feel weirded out by the willfully old permacouples.

“She was never nice to me, and now she’s giving me relationship advice,” sneered a friend (a dater) after an encounter with a married.

Five years past high school and some people just seemed to have their lives figured out. They’ve got job security and diamond rings. Others are idling away their 20s writing about bands and high school reunions for a living. They’ve got Twitter. The ones with their lives on track, they want to help you find your own path to the boardroom or the altar. The rest of us, we just wanna gawk at the guys who went bald.

At this point, most people looked the same or better than they did in high school. But, as secretly hoped, some didn’t.

There were the usual and unexciting receding hairlines and unshed Freshman 15. But there were bound to be a few extraordinary specimens to whom time had been utterly and deliberately cruel. Not that the cable-knit sweaters and corduroy didn’t lend life a hand in the aging process..

One had filled out considerably. His voice was graveled as though he’d been smoking three packs a day for 30 years. He wanted to offer investment advice – as if anybody at 23 would be in a position to invest in much more than rent? Another I couldn’t gather the nerve to talk to: An athlete in school, the years had left him hunched, combed-over and dressed like Mr. Rogers. A little unfortunate, I’ll admit. I was afraid if I tried to talk to him he’d sit me on his knee and tell me about “Matlock.”

A part of me felt sorry for them, and sorrier for myself for making jokes in my head (and on the page) at their expense. I hoped they’d see the humor in it.

But setting aside the awkward moments and schadenfreude, I left the reunion happy. It was fun to reconnect with people I hadn’t seen since adolescence, to hear about their adventures in college and their entry into the working world. It was a validation of my own career choices and a reminder of everything that still makes me nostalgic about high school.

The changes were notable, but so was the ease with which, after a couple hours, old conversations seemed to pick up exactly where they’d stopped half a decade ago. The memories didn’t so much return as make it known they never went away. And by the end of it, every hesitant handshake and one-armed hug was a precious reminder that just as we had been in high school, we’re all still looking for our place in the world. And as awkward as that search can be, sometimes the most awkward experiences are the ones that leave the rosiest glow in memory.

I might never be best friends, or even Facebook friends, with most of the people I graduated high school with. But I’m looking forward to seeing them all again in five years.

Ready to return to my current life, I slid into my ’98 Accord (the same one I frequently borrowed from my dad in high school), peeled off my nametag and sent one final tweet.

“My nametag is officially crumpled and on the floor of my car. This party is over.”

~ Bryan Reed