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Three months ago, a number of women from my very small, all-girls' high school got in touch on Facebook. One person led to another who knew three more and all of a sudden here were these multiple tiny, grown-up heads in avatars that I'd last seen in 1988. Our school closed in 1990 when the nuns ran out of money, and in the years since I kept in touch with one person, my closest friend from those years, but for the most part the rest of us scattered to who knew where.
With no school and no organized system of get-togethers every five years, we planned a reunion dinner for November 1. In the weeks prior, photos of families went up as status updates and profile pages told part of the story of approximately 25 adult lives. I contemplated de-tagging the more unfortunate yearbook photos people added of me but didn't. One friend and I who couldn't wait got together for lunch, and were amazed at how little catching up there really was to do with that much backstory filled in. And last Saturday in an Italian restaurant in Washington, D.C., 20 women gathered and screamed and hugged and looked at pictures and yearbooks and ate and drank and filled in so many blanks.
One of my closest friends from elementary school all the way up to senior year flew up from Florida to surprise us and I was amazed by how important it was to see her again, how we still knew so many of the same stories, how we really (really) didn't look or sound or act that much different, although I'm sure we thought we did (and I definitely think I have better hair at this point, which admittedly isn't that much of a feat looking at my old pictures.) Another girl who I wasn't that close with has reached out to me in the past couple of months with support for my writing work and it was great to see her in person to thank her. I sat next to a woman I went to school with from the ages of 5 to 18, who was one of my first friends, and I felt very content. The stories tumbled over each other and there was much interruption and no one cared. On the eve of the election, we talked some politics, which was interesting given where we'd left off as apolitical teenagers. We laughed when someone pointed out everyone's cell phones and said that the last time we'd talked you needed a quarter and a booth to make a call.
And also there was tiramisu and wine, which help matters exponentially. Five of us ended the night singing and dancing in the back of a limo, talking about how cool this was that we were still in the area and that it would in no way be this long until we got together again. And in the days after I understood that no matter where we've gone we are all women with lives that are complicated and simple by turns. Some of us have kids, some of us don't. We have been lucky and not-so-much in love. We are all engaged in some kind of work that makes some kind of a difference to someone, in our homes, in our communities and in a variety of professions.
My head reeled from all of it. My life is so different now. I have had so little tie to that time in the past 20 years. The community fell away and I didn't think I missed it, so I was unprepared for how good I would feel after that night out with these women I hadn't seen since I was 17. It felt good to reconnect. It felt awesome to catch up with people who were genuinely happy to see me and who I was so happy to see. It put a better spin on some of my old memories and helped me see the person I was back then - a girl I probably do judge too harshly - in a better light.
Then, this week, a friend called to tell me there was a fundraiser today for a woman we had worked with just out of college, a lifelong waitress at a restaurant that for us was a waystation. Would I come? No question. Did I know what I would find there and would it feel a little strange? Absolutely not and absolutely.
I went anyway and
