What Made Me Cry For Days?

Every time I thought about my husband’s my upcoming 60th high school reunion, I felt the beginning sting of tears.

“Iris,” I sternly admonished myself, “for Heaven’s sake, get a grip!”

And now, days after two evening events filled with reminisces of the crazy things we did and the more responsible things we didn’t do, the tears are still flowing.

How do you sum up being with “the kids” you spent six intense years with – not even counting the ones you met in kindergarten and first grade?

Surreal. Déjà vu. Incomparable.

I know I wax ridiculously nutso over my high school cronies. But I did re-meet my husband at our 10th high school reunion so I’m a bit sentimental about reunions in general.

And I know many think it’s a little wacko, but I feel very strongly about my classmates:
Protective
Proud
Immensely affectionate
And so happy to be in their presence

For example, at some point during the evening, I spilled Coke all over my white jean jacket and a buddy pulled me aside, whipped out a Tide stick and painstakingly dotted every splattered mark of cola on the bottom half of my jacket.

We take care of each other.

We have lost parents, siblings, children and other classmates, but we don’t let those losses stop us. We come together. We ask questions and we listen.

I can’t recall what people were wearing.

I can’t recall – except for one person – anyone bragging about their kids’ accomplishments or their own personal net worth.

It was more like:
Remember when…. ?
How’s your pickleball game?
When are you coming to visit?

We didn’t talk politics.

We didn’t talk the next big thing coming down the pike.

We didn’t even focus that much on health issues – which was my biggest fear.

All was going exceedingly well until I felt a resurgence of two emotions I hadn’t felt in such full force since junior high school:
Insecurity
and
Jealousy

I pull one of my “besties” aside and began to explain. “See Steven sitting in that almost empty room over there? Well, he’s not alone! He is chatting animatedly with someone he didn’t even know in high school.”

I pause dramatically. “And, he did the same thing last night with her!”

Part of me is horrified by my runaway emotions – absolutely shocked at their intensity. I felt the agonizing pain of teenage angst wash all over me again: having pimples, feeling awkward and hiding my hairy legs because my mom wouldn’t let me shave them.

I wonder out loud to my “bestie” but she doesn’t really give me an answer to my two question:
How long is he going to be talking to her?
And what in the hell are they talking about?

Yet, there is a part of me that is jubilant that I still have those intense feelings for my husband at my age of 78 and having been married to him for 49 years.

And then those past uncomfortable feelings recede as I see my husband (finally) emerge from the room and catch my eye. He bounds happily up to me. And in that moment, I don’t take his love, his loyalty and his faithfulness for granted.

The second evening of the Class of “65 being together is quickly coming to a close.

I have watched – entranced – as a classmate with cognitive decline dances flawlessly with his wife.

I have watched as my classmates with walkers expertly maneuver them throughout the maze of chairs and tables dotting our party space.

The Class of ’65:
We grew up
We struggled
We triumphed
We overcame
We endured

And WE SHOWED UP – with our protruding bellies, receding hair lines, not quite so steady balance and not quite as stunning cleavage.

For those two evenings we were surrounded by 80 people who were as familiar to us as our own kids’ and grandkids’ faces – where we just kinda basked in each other’s presence – where looking around was just like being suffused in one giant HUG.

I had one very comforting thought as Steven and I walked to our car after the final goodbyes. I recalled that someone early in the evening had casually mentioned we should get together to celebrate our 80th birthdays in just two years.

I’m holding that thought close. It’s simply another way of honoring the events that formed us, the people who molded us and the experiences that influenced us to live our lives the way we did.

To the Class of ‘65 everywhere, I have one final message:
KEEP ON SHOWING UP