Ten years ago this month, I left Connecticut to move to Atlanta. Since then, I’ve lived in the ATL, Phoenix, Baltimore and D.C. Connecticut will always be home though. They don’t make friends like they did in high school…ones who will help you hairspray your bangs so that they stand upright from your forehead, or ones that will call you in sick to school from a payphone!
Thanks to the wonders of Facebook, ten of my high school friends and I found each other and organized a “reunion” this past weekend. Kids, I never had so much fucking fun in my life. I told Mr. X enough high school stories last night to probably make him wonder if he could trade the 35 year old me for the younger, more reckless version. Well, maybe not.
Anyway, I’ll have to break the weekend into a few posts. There’s just no room to cover it all in one.
My “longest friend” as I call her, my kindergarten partner in crime and I still are in regular contact. Of the eleven of us, all have been married except me. Two are divorced and I’m far beyond impressed at their strength to see a situation as a loss and get out. (Probably the reason I haven’t been married. Too scared I wouldn’t be able to leave.) Two had major problems conceiving babies. Another had major problems in labor and delivery – enough to make me reconsider having a child ever. One had a C-Section and felt them cutting her. One is pregnant now. One just had a baby and still dragged herself out to see us. One affirmatively does not want kids. One lives in Delaware. I’m in DC. One is in upstate Connecticut. But the rest of them are within several miles of each other. See, Connecticut is one of those places that’s so nice that people never really complain about it. And for the most part, they never leave. I wouldn’t have left except Atlanta Boy tricked me. I’ve been trying to claw my way back there ever since.
We covered a lot of ground this weekend. Catching up on 17 years of details in everyone’s lives, as well as in other people’s lives who we knew but weren’t in our little circle with was difficult. I’ve lived a boring life compared to what’s happened to some of our high school classmates.
One of our guy-friends was arrested in a major drug and gun sting operation when Federal Marshalls disguised as Fed Ex guys delivered his drugs to his front door. (Who has drugs fed exed to their house?)
Two of our classmates who never liked each other in high school somehow saw fit to get married and have kids. However, big problems in that marriage, a cheating husband, and they are on their way to divorce-land.
Some chick I worked at Pizza Hut with (shut up!) dropped dead from a heart attack. In her 30’s. More drugs.
My high school boyfriend allegedly married someone who looks just like me.
One of the best stories, however, came from inside our own group.
It seems that when you catch your husband cheating on you, finding a charge for match.com on your joint credit card isn’t the lowest low. Nor is finding his profile on match where he says outright that he’s married but looking to mess around. Nor would it be the day you kick him out of your house, having waited through holidays and children’s birthdays with the knowledge of what lay on your credit card bill and online.
It would seem that the lowest low would be a couple years later, when your now ex-husband tells you that through a series of operations we know as “transgender,” he’s going to become a woman.
The Sunday morning mass emails among the girls simply said, “You win.”