Decade
My 10 year high school reunion is next year.
I haven't thought about that in a long time. Why do these things really matter? Really, who wants to see people they haven't spoken to in nearly a decade? If I really wanted to catch up with them, it probably wouldn't be that hard. I could just go to the local grocery store and see who's working the cash register.
I probably should have a desire to go—prove to all the spoiled rich kids (who are now probably in unhappy marriages as (or, with) trophy wives, divorced, or working some second-rate job pushing papers) that a rat from the wrong side of the mountain can make something of herself, given enough determination. I should want to show them all what a huge success I've made myself into.
I have this perverse mental image of myself pulling up to the reunion in a very flashy sports car with some young hot babe on my arm clinging to my every word as we make our rounds through the room, showing everyone how great I ended up, how rich, how desirable.
Scratch that, change of plans. I pull up to the reunion in a beat up Jeep Wrangler, my companion for the evening is a doctor working feverishly with Doctor's Without Borders, and was able to arrange his latest trips around this reunion, just to be with me.
Nahh... he's a world class tree hugger, desperately trying to save the Amazon rain forests.
No matter what ideal I dream up for this thing, I'm always coming back to the same thing: I don't show up alone—never. What do I have to prove to others? To myself? Is it a matter of proving something? I spend so much time being happy, and single, that I worry that these day dreams are symptomatic that I'm not as happily single as I believe I am.
But, far more importantly: why on earth do I care?
I haven't thought about that in a long time. Why do these things really matter? Really, who wants to see people they haven't spoken to in nearly a decade? If I really wanted to catch up with them, it probably wouldn't be that hard. I could just go to the local grocery store and see who's working the cash register.
I probably should have a desire to go—prove to all the spoiled rich kids (who are now probably in unhappy marriages as (or, with) trophy wives, divorced, or working some second-rate job pushing papers) that a rat from the wrong side of the mountain can make something of herself, given enough determination. I should want to show them all what a huge success I've made myself into.
I have this perverse mental image of myself pulling up to the reunion in a very flashy sports car with some young hot babe on my arm clinging to my every word as we make our rounds through the room, showing everyone how great I ended up, how rich, how desirable.
Scratch that, change of plans. I pull up to the reunion in a beat up Jeep Wrangler, my companion for the evening is a doctor working feverishly with Doctor's Without Borders, and was able to arrange his latest trips around this reunion, just to be with me.
Nahh... he's a world class tree hugger, desperately trying to save the Amazon rain forests.
No matter what ideal I dream up for this thing, I'm always coming back to the same thing: I don't show up alone—never. What do I have to prove to others? To myself? Is it a matter of proving something? I spend so much time being happy, and single, that I worry that these day dreams are symptomatic that I'm not as happily single as I believe I am.
But, far more importantly: why on earth do I care?
posted by granola girl at 9:49 pm
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