I Wanna Run Through The Halls Of My High School, I Wanna Scream At The Top Of My Lungs

Janice Ian nailed it when she wrote about the angst that I, and probably a lot of my female classmates suffered in her song "At Seventeen." Those of us who watched from the cheap seats at school dances while the cool kids laughed breezily and danced dreamily with each other. I didn't have eighty already established friendships from going to the same grammar school as they did. I didn't go to a beach club, much less go to the right one. I carried a hobo bag and wore faux suede shoes from a discount shoe store-so unlike the expensive leather Bass Weejuns and Aigner wicker basket purses that it seemed everyone else had. If the Island of Misfit Toys had people, I was the train with square wheels.

When I met Wingman, it was different.  At his high school, he was a cool kid; the cliche jock who dated the cheerleader. The bass player in a band.  When we started going out, I eagerly became part of his group. Every five years I would go to my reunions alone, see my old friends, but never mix with anyone outside my circle. I would also go with Wingman to his reunions, talk to a multitude of his friends and acquaintances, and marvel at our circles' differences.

After we had kids, I joined a beach club (yes, one of the right ones) and actually made friends with one of the cool women I graduated with.  She had two beautiful young daughters and I had...well, a normal day in my life was when son #2 threw up on her blanket while son #1 got fruit snacks stuck up his nose.  My misfit sons joined me on the island.

Over the years, Wingman spent less and less time with his former friends and refused to go to reunions. I conversely, got more involved with mine.  My forte was researching people's addresses, sending emails and making lists. And there I discovered that the people who organized the reunions may have been cool back then, but now they were cool and professional. They got stuff done and the rest of us enjoyed the fruits of their labor.

A year ago, I went with the BFF to her 50th reunion.  It was a summer weekend filled with varied outside events that took into consideration that Covid was still heavy on people's minds. And everything was fabulous.  At the meeting for ours, we chose similar ideas and even booked two places they used without the Covid fears of the previous year. But locating other venues this year was tough and there were no hotels in the area with reasonable room rates due to the backlog of weddings not held since 2019. Trying to locate the 332 graduates minus 35 who passed was another daunting task.  Social media, local newspapers and church bulletins didn't amount to much. A committee of ten volunteers to each locate 30 people resulted in only four of us doing the legwork.

Like previous reunions, I loved finding and connecting with people I hadn't spoken to since graduating, or in many cases, people I had NEVER spoken to. Like the smartest guy in Calculus with the foulest mouth who ended up being one of the most successful. When visiting friends in North Carolina, I located three classmates living in the next town. The one I never knew turned out to have been instrumental in building the new sports complex at the school. It was equally disturbing to talk to people that refused to come because they hated high school. Wait-you hate it??? Didn't we, the uncool, elect you, the cool to Student Council? Didn't we, the un-athletic not make teams because you did? Didn't you laugh and dance while we watched?

Last week, we held our reunion. A golf course, an oceanfront restaurant, a church, the high school, a country club and a boardwalk bar were our venues.  People were there who are seen around town regularly and some who haven't been "home" in fifty years. Everyone got along famously, with gasps of recognition, claps on the back and plenty of hugging. As one woman commented "its so nice to reconnect with such wonderful people because we were all so kind in school."  

She was so right about that. Those of us who sat on the sidelines back then, didn't know it or feel like we were cool, but we were, because we were always kind to each other. We held our peers' heads when they got sick and died, when marriages broke up, when parents, siblings and spouses passed. When Wingman died, it was my classmates coming to pay their respects that touched me. The peer who paid for my dinner in his restaurant after Sandy flooded my home. The one who gave my son insulin at her clinic when my insurance to cover him ran out. The many who generously donated money to this reunion so that others without the means could attend.

I came away from the weekend with great conversations, plenty of photos and a renewed respect for my peers. And I giggle because I also came away with a slew of new phone contacts-a lot of of them men I never spoke to in high school, because, you guessed it-they were cool and I was not.  If I should get run over by a bus, my kids will not question any of the women's names like Kathy, Mary, Janet or Bunny, but they will ask themselves and each other who Bill and Jay and Jack and Dave and Dennis and Brendan and Kevin and Lee and Marks 1, 2 and 3, among others, are in my phone. They needent wonder.

I changed their Company name to "Cool Kids" so they'll know.

Bought me dinner when my house flooded

Football team reunited 50 years later.
Don't anyone mention their 0-7-2 record.

This photo got traction because I looked decent &
was with a guy I never spoke to in HS.

My spirit animal widow-friend and our music man.

We didn't run through the halls but got a tour
of the HS and student center.

Sat next to him alphabetically for two years.  
Hadn't seen or spoken in 50.

Another never-knew cool guy.  
Wants us all to take river cruises in the future.

He admitted he had no idea who I was in HS.
Laughed about it for days.

Guys who have and have never attended a reunion.

A guy who never misses one.

Every cool kid who could make it.  Twelve got sick or had other issues and were last minute cancels.  We wish they could all have been there.