So, on Saturday night, I attended my husband’s 20th high school reunion – and it was very fun. I knew I’d have a good time though. Seeing as how I’ve now been with my husband for 16 years, I’ve also known his group of high school friends and many of their significant others for just as long, so we have quite a history of our own.

As I guzzled my “club soda on the rocks” throughout the evening (amidst a crowd that was drinking much heavier stuff, and I don’t blame them), I “helicoptered” just close enough that my husband could find me if he needed to introduce me to someone, but far enough that he could swap stories and updates without a spousal audience. I also tried not to think too much about my own 20th that was happening on the same night, at that same time, several hundred miles away, in a little inn in Pennsylvania, without me. For many reasons, primarily logistical, I decided that it was just too hard to get my own reunion. But late last week, regret seeped in big time.

You only get a 20th once in your life, right? And it’s not like me to miss such a big milestone event, seeing as how I’m a sap for such things.
Would I regret this decision for years to come?
Would my karma be off forever if I didn’t go back and reconnect with my fellow Blue Demons?
Would I be missing some great confession of a secret crush (doubtful), or revelation from a classmate that I had the best herkie jump they’d ever seen at halftime (even less probable), or the chance to thank that sweet friend that spent countless hours working on crazy book report projects with me? (Thanks Alice.)

But alas, even though I even went online and peeked at the train schedule to P.A., I decided it was just too late and too expensive, and well…I’ll just have to hold out hope for a 25th.

So there I was on Saturday night, in a very crowded and hot bar in downtown Boston, with no nametag, no official role, the most flattering outfit I could find in my closet (it’s not like I didn’t try for something new at the mall, but the pressure was too much I suppose), and the freedom to roam the room and eat free fried calamari without much of a threat of being tagged in photos on Facebook or be scrutinized for how I’d aged. People were hugging, snapping photos, swapping pictures, sharing stories and “what are you doing now?” updates. My husband and his friends were having a ball. The energy in the room was intense. It was a loud, nervous energy… exactly what you would expect from 150+ people who hadn’t been collected in one place in a very, very long time.

As I wandered from friend to friend to get updates and tidbits of who’s who, I could piece together a bit of the class dynamics from my own observations and pieces of stories I’ve heard over the years, laced with introductions throughout the evening. I really liked living in my husband’s yearbook for a few hours. It was fun to see him having so much fun. I met his best friend from elementary school. His first kiss (she blushed when he introduced her as such). His prom date from senior year (gorgeous). And as an outsider it was actually easy to see the parallels to the people I graduated with. I could tell who was the prom queen, the posse of guy athletes, the quiet kids, the sweetheart, the comedian. And I could also sense that the pre-determined social structure of cliques and cool tables in the cafeteria had kind of leveled out there in that bar… due, one would imagine, to life experience gained through 20 years spent outside the brick walls of a high school.

And I was glad to realize that I was really having fun simply being “Michael’s wife”. He’s the kind of guy that got along with everyone in high school, and it was obvious as I watched him work the room. He’s even the kind of guy that inspires people to come up to his wife and tell her how lucky she is. Not that I didn’t already know that.

I also realized that no matter where you went to high school, we all went through the same grueling process that is, well, high school. And although I had my share of good times, boy am I glad to be on the other side of it all. The labels we were given by our peers back then (even if they were good ones), and the stories we are remembered for stay with us even after 20 years (much like that bad asymmetrical haircut you bravely tested in the 9th grade) but they definitely don’t have to define us now. It was a very “John Hughes-Breakfast-Club-Anthony Michael Hall” type revelation. And I guess that’s what I really felt like I was missing by skipping my own reunion… the chance to strip away those pre-determined labels and just re-connect with the people that I grew up with.

Anyhoo, at least I got a lot more out of not going to my own reunion than I ever thought I would. On the ride home my husband thanked me for being there and for being such a great wingman. And I was proud and happy that I did that for him.

It’s very good to be “Michael’s wife”, and it’s fun to be from the class of 1989… no matter where I actually celebrated it.