So thanks to the wonders of Facebook, my 8th grade graduating class is having a reunion.
Gee, THANKS Facebook!
Here’s something you should know- I went to the same Catholic school in California with almost the same group of kids from Kindergarten to 8th grade (give or take a few). We were very, very close. Many are still best friends. I actually liked a lot of them (except my arch nemesis). It could be interesting to see everyone. Or it could be incredibly awkward.
One woman in particular has made it her mission to pull off this reunion. It’s strange because she didn’t even go to school with us for that many years but she apparently has fond memories. This woman, while very well meaning and sweet, is not the best communicator. Her emails to us are all over the place peppered with too much personal information and a lot of LOLs. You get the picture. I’ve offered my help because as an event planner I can see this whole thing being an epic fail if someone doesn’t interfere assist.
At first I was considering going figuring that if no one had given notice at the apartment even though it’s on August 8th (only two weeks after I return home from Chicago/BlogHer) I could maybe swing it for old time’s sake. I even replied “maybe” on the evite remarking that I was having nightmare flashbacks about pool parties. (Apparently the house it’s being held at has a pool and we were told to bring our suits.) But then last night I was telling my friends about it and they were like WE ARE GETTING MARRIED ON THE 9TH AND YOU HAVE TO BE THERE. Oh, right. Shit! I should know this since I am sort of their wedding coordinator. So now there is absolutely no question about whether I am going or not. I can’t. End of story.
Except, when I went to change my reply on the evite my arch nemesis had replied yes she was attending and had said something to me about not worrying because no one was going to wear swimsuits. My immediate thought was: What the fuck you skinny bitch!? Nothing has changed with you since 8th grade is that what you are telling me with that dig?! I wish I was going so I could tit punch you into the fucking pool.
Not that I still harbor resentments or anything.
She probably didn’t mean it as a jab (benefit of the doubt! benefit of the doubt!) but I still don’t like her and you can’t make me. It’s clearly better that I can’t go. Instead I will just send a life sized photo cut out of my face on a stick for them to insert into photos. Or down their pants. This way no one gets hurt.
Though I’ll admit there is a small part of me that would like to go, just to show them what I’m made of. That I am no longer that shy fat girl who was everyone’s friend but no one’s girlfriend. That girl who got good grades and followed the rules and was nice to everyone.
Oh wait. I kind of am still that girl. Minus the shy.