This weekend I will be flying to Cincinnati, Ohio, to spend the weekend with a bunch of old people. Sounds like a dream come true, right? The event is my high school class reunion. I won’t tell you which anniversary of my high school graduation it is, although Hubby deemed it necessary to announce the number from the pulpit at church. Afterward, a boy came up to me and did the math, asking if he got my age right. I told him I graduated from high school at the age of five, but I’m not sure he bought it.

Since I’ve been remiss in keeping in contact with people I knew back in the Stone Age, in preparation for this celebration, I have been perusing my Classmates website and yearbooks, trying to spark a memory for some of these people whom I swear I’ve never seen before in my life.  Then, again, with my memory disappearing as quickly as my youthful body, these people could have been my best friends for all I know. Several people have visited my Classmates profile whom I honestly don’t remember. Apparently, they remember me. I shudder to think why. I have reciprocated by visiting their profiles, which generally don’t give me any more clues. I seem to be the only writer in the bunch, with a LONG profile of what I’ve been doing over the past several decades, whereas only a handful of people from my graduating class have written anything at all. Haven’t they done anything in the last few decades, or did they detest writing so much in high school they vowed never to write again? About the only information I’ve discovered is what music and movies a few of them like. That’s helpful.

I do remember that everything in high school seemed terribly important at the time as if what happened there would impact the rest of my life for success or failure. Amazing how little any of it mattered. If only I could somehow convey that little bit of wisdom to today’s teens. But they’d probably dismiss me as an old fogey who didn’t “get it,” like I would have at their age. I still have to listen to Younger Son’s daily drama and try to convince him that in fifty years none of it will matter. Of course, he can’t envision next week, let alone fifty years from now. Yeah, well, neither could I, yet here I am.

One thing that particularly strikes me is that the people who have posted current pictures of themselves look nothing like I remember. Imagine that. They all look so old. And they have grandchildren. I, of course, haven’t changed a bit, and am easily recognizable as the same person I was in high school. As for grandchildren, Hubby has grandchildren, but technically they are his, not mine. That’s one perk of having children late in life. I can maintain the façade of youth by not being a grandmother. Even the word “grandmother” sounds old.

So, as I look forward to this upcoming event with mixed feelings, I am left with the truism that time really does fly. One minute I’m anticipating being a senior in high school, the next, I’m a senior citizen. How is that fair? However, I’m still on the green side of the grass to celebrate this milestone, which is something, I suppose. I’m only hoping I can stay awake past nine o’clock.