My 50th high school
reunion is this summer. I’d love to go. But vanity and I long
ago parted company and while I probably don’t look any worse
than most women my age, I no longer have to whip out my ID to get
the senior discount.
I tell myself that it is a long and
expensive trip from Raton, N.M., to Butte, Mont., to see people I
haven’t seen in 50 years. But the long drive and the expense
aren’t the only reasons I’m reluctant to go. It’s
that long-abandoned vanity rearing its ugly head. I don’t
look like I did at 18. My hair, then waist-length and a shiny
copper-penny color, is now gray and so short I don’t need a
comb.
In high school I had to wear thick glasses for
nearsightedness. Now, for the first time in my life, I don’t
need to wear glasses — I’ve had successful cataract surgery.
But the glasses I no longer wear might help hide some of the
wrinkles around my eyes.
I feel that somehow I
shouldn’t have let it happen. If only I’d been more
careful, my skin would still be firm and elastic, not wrinkled and
sagging. My hair would still be luxurious, not wispy and gray. The
past 50 years wouldn’t be etched so deeply into my face and
neck. I’ve read that high-school reunions are one of the
leading reasons people go on diets. I made peace long ago (I
thought) with the fact that I’d never be thin again.
I’m ashamed to admit that I have thought about trying to lose
weight for the reunion — for a weekend during which I’ll see
people I’ll never seen again. The key word is
“thought” about it.
At 18, I railed against
what I perceived to be the many flaws in my body and appearance.
Someone should have told me that I’d never look that good
again, that my concerns about how my body looks would someday be
replaced by gratitude that any part of it still works and
doesn’t hurt. Would I have listened though? Probably not.
I remember when my mother attended her 50th college
reunion. Although she was delighted to see her college roommate and
she enjoyed the reunion, it was a poignant and bittersweet
experience. Almost all of the men in her class had died. The
bubbly, blonde twins that had been so adorable were now gray-haired
and in twin wheelchairs.
Shall I go to my reunion and
have all my old schoolmates wonder who in the world I am? Will I
even recognize any of them?
Time hasn’t stood still
for them either. No doubt some of them are dead. Probably others
are suffering various infirmities. Not one of us would be able to
pass for 18 again.
Even though my body, hair, eyes, and
skin have suffered the ravages of time, I have somehow arrived at
an appreciation of myself and my body that I didn’t have at
18 and wouldn’t have until many years later. It has taken me
a long time to accept myself and celebrate the body that, while it
has aged and not always gracefully, hasn’t yet let me down
and still allows me to greet each day with optimism and hope.
So if I feel such a sense of contentment about who I have
become and appreciation for the body that I was so critical of in
my youth, why does the prospect of seeing my classmates for the
first time in 50 years terrify me?
Because in 1958, it
seemed that our entire lives were ahead of us. There was the thrill
of anticipating all the wonderful things that were going to happen:
the true love, the happy marriage, the beautiful children, the
great achievements, the successful career. The happiness and
contentment I enjoy now have been attained only through learning to
want what I have instead of hanging onto those old dreams that
didn’t come true.
I’m probably not the only
one in my high-school graduating class who has gotten old, whose
marriage ended in divorce, who didn’t write the great
American novel, who didn’t make a million dollars. Surely
I’m not the only one who postponed having children until the
perfect relationship came along, only to have menopause arrive
before Mr. Right did.
Perhaps meeting my classmates will
be a comfort of sorts. Maybe we’ll all find that our
insecurities and teenage angst have been replaced by the
self-acceptance that only comes with maturity. Just maybe we will
have the wisdom to pat ourselves on the back for surviving.
Jeannie Pomeroy is a contributor to Writers on
the Range, a service of High Country News (hcn.org).
She lives in Raton, New Mexico.
Republish our articles for free, online or in print, under a Creative Commons license.
