"Seniors '69. I finally lettered." Part 2 (reading time 1:57)

1969 Mustang. Cool!

I walked into the event with my best girlfriend in high school, Joyce Szor, who has aged like fine wine into a beautiful woman, along with her two daughters who were devastatingly gorgeous. If nothing else I knew I was fairly safe, given that the attention would be diverted from me to them. I immediately saw a male friend and connected; the rest of the night was an amazing patchwork quilt of memories, not the least of which was the shock on the faces when they realized who I was and how different (and better) I looked since we last crossed paths some forty years earlier.
Let me state right here and now the following disclaimer related to this last part of the story about my 40th High School Reunion in Dallas: I do not do well with complements. I have lived most of my life with a less than strong self image; truth is that I have always considered myself fat (I still look in store and car window reflections), never happy with my hair (I even did the perm phase and am now reverting back to my hippie days to try a pony tail), think my voice is too high (that shock you get when you play back a recording of your own voice and it reminds you of Alvin and the Chipmunks) and am never quite sure whether what I choose to wear really works together (why don’t they have Garanimals for adults). As you can likely discern for yourself from the pictures of me from that time in high school you would not attach descriptors like cool, stud, jock and cover potential for the next Nordstrom’s men’s catalog. Nope. Not me.

Here’s the deal: I really think I have weathered quite well and that the years have been, let’s just say kinder to me than many of my male classmates. Most of the jocks had bulked up (sans the muscles),
the band members seemed a bit out of tune and the studs appeared to be struggling with wood rot. As for the ladies (I tread carefully here), a number of the drill team and cheerleaders seemed to be carrying their pom-poms a bit lower,



some of the “Home Ec” devotees seemed to have spread out along with their Texas spreads and the flashy lookers were now radiating more with their sequins and baubles than their once natural good looks.

Now, hold on there. Stop your fuming about my seemingly prideful and conceited judgment. Granted, I come from a family whose genes favor youthful aging: My brother is 62 and looks…good. My mom is 86, pool exercises three days a week, has a vibrant sense of humor and energy that rivals most 40 year-olds I see…she is amazing. My sister is 49 and is…a babe. As for me, I do not think I am a first prize, and I confess that the glances, approaches, flirting and general attention I got was a huge boost to my ego. It felt great and I claim it…comma and here’s what realized when I was laying in bed reflecting on the reunion and…

“So what?”:

• We all wear different kinds of uniforms, costumes and masks;
• We have the tendency to hang out with the same people and cliques where we feel like we fit;
• We might graduate from one grade to another, but I am not sure how well we do moving from one class to another;
• Beneath the layers of clothes, baubles, makeup, back slapping, remember whens and passing comments about how good we look we are all simply yearning for ways to be seen, known and loved.

Forty years ago I was seen. Not known. Not loved.

Forty years later I was seen. Not known. Not loved.

Everything looked different. And nothing had changed.

For emphasis – (b)