Don’t You Forget About Me

Should I go back to my high school reunion?

The observant folks will notice two Robins. Both photos are tragic.

I considered the invite that sat in my inbox. Whether I liked it or not, I was cordially invited to my 30th high school reunion.

The affair promised to be two fun-filled nights of “glory-days-ing.” One at a really cool downtown bar called the Dark Horse, and by really cool I mean I always imagined it to be really cool even though no one ever invited me to go there. Day two would be filled with beer and wings down at the local Elks lodge. Of course it would be because I’m from Small Town, USA.

I stared at the invite, envisioning myself entering the bar on that Friday night, nervously holding my wife’s hand. Or would I ignore my wife’s hand, keeping my hand in my pocket (not unlike Alanis Morissette) because I didn’t want people to know I was gay? That would be pretty stupid since I’d likely be the only lady bringing another lady to her high school reunion. Oh, and also we have kids together, wear matching wedding bands and both have a penchant for black t-shirts with logos at both formal and informal events.

“Who cares what those people think?” I said to myself. “I’m a grown-ass woman, confident in who I am.”

Except, every time I pictured myself entering the bar, I saw my classmate’s faces, their eyes moving up one side of me and down the other.

“Are those Old Navy jeans?” a former cheerleader said.

I felt myself getting defensive.

“I’m better than you!” I screamed inside my head. “I have a cool job. I own a three-bedroom apartment. Do you know how hard that is to do in Brooklyn?”

I envisioned myself punching anyone who stood within a 30-foot radius of me.

Great. In the few seconds since receiving the invite, I had turned back into my insecure, high school self. In fight or flight mode, trying to hurt others before I got hurt.

I sat at my computer; continuously opening and closing the invitation.

What I wanted was to be able to attend the reunion with no baggage; genuinely curious about the lives of the people I spent my formative years with. I wanted to be able to laugh off the mistakes I made (and the horrible haircuts), but still feel confident in who I had become. I wanted to enter the bar proudly holding my wife’s hand, and not feel like this was another thing I could be made fun of for.

I nervously chewed a straw and wondered if I was capable of any of that.

Let me rewind a bit and state the obvious: I didn’t thrive in junior high and high school.

In middle school, I was a tomboy who wore her dad’s old button-down shirts to school. I had the same haircut that my son has today, and I wanted nothing more than to hang out with the boys, play baseball, kickball, football (anything with a ball) while the girls stood together, in their way-to-tight Jordache jeans, singing AC DC’s TNT (FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!) attempting to get the boys to notice them.

I thought those girls were stupid.

Then one day in 6th grade, my teacher (shout out to Mrs. Cincotta!) pulled me aside and lovingly told me that winter was coming. The boys would soon be interested in those ridiculous girls, and if I didn’t find my place, I was going to be left behind. I shook my head and laughed at Mrs. C. because I knew the boys would never leave me.

Then 6th grade turned into 7th, and the first junior high dance was upon us. I had seen this cute 8th grade boy and I figured I could ask him to go to the dance with me. It would be like hanging out in the gym, but without the dodgeball.

I called my friend Bob to share my plan.

“Robin, that’s hilarious. Dennis isn’t going to the dance with you….” He laughed some more. “He’s popular.”

Every hormone in my body decided to wake up from its resting state, and for the next fifteen minutes Bob desperately tried to extricate himself from our phone call as I blabbered on about how I just knew I wasn’t pretty. When Bob didn’t correct me, I sobbed even harder.

Poor Bob.

Middle school was a minefield. In the morning and in between classes, the popular kids sat with their backs against the lockers, lining the floor of the long hallways, creating a gauntlet that the lesser students had to walk through. It never occurred to me to be afraid of these kids until the day I walked down the hall, with my books in the crook of my arm, and someone yelled out “Down…set…hike!” as I passed by.

The words were followed by hysterical laughter.

What was happening? Where they making fun of me?

The answer was a solid, you bet ya.

Back in the day, and I mean way back in fourth, fifth and sixth grade, I played small fry football. I’m talking helmet, pads, the works. It turned out that I was the first girl to play a boys’ sport in the Tristate area after the passing of Title IX, so the news vans showed up to cover the momentous occasion. My fellow teammates and I basked in the glory of our 15 minutes of fame.

#45 or bust!

But for a girl in junior high school, playing football was not something to be proud of. It meant I could no longer walk down a hallway without a former friend yelling football jargon in my direction as fawning girls laughed at his wit.

Perhaps this wouldn’t have happened if my coach had thought to play me at running back or tight end, but without any consideration to the optics, he thought I’d make a great center. I couldn’t worry about that though because the damage was already done.

So, like a presidential candidate heading out of the primaries and into the general election, I attempted to pivot. I grew my hair out, got a perm (kept the mullet though!) and bought some girl clothes at the mall on my mom’s credit card. I attempted to transition into my life as a teenage girl in hopes of fitting in. But my new clothes felt like someone else’s and the bra that my mom insisted I wear (even after school. Why?) was a constant reminder that I was uncomfortable in my own skin. It was clear my plan was not going to work.

At the same time in my life, things were falling apart at home. My parents split up, and we went from a middle-class family (living beyond our means) to my mom and me alone in an apartment on the dumpy side of town. My dad disappeared into his life filled with girlfriends, boats and limited responsibilities. My mom started drinking, dating and running out of money.

I was lost.

I became a kid who lashed out. I was mean to those less fortunate than me. And by less fortunate I mean anyone unable to stand up to my quick, mean spirited wit. I spent a semester in ninth grade gym class making fun of a girl so badly that she changed classes.

I recall sitting next to a girl in English class. She was that self-assured, smart girl who seemed comfortable with who she was. At least that’s how I remember her; a young Molly Ringwald complete with that very cool hat from the opening scene of 16 Candles.

We talked. We connected. She was on the fringes like me, and she admitted that she too often felt like an outsider. Oh my god, we were going to be friends. I was going to fit in.

But a week later, I was standing in a line with a really popular girl — the brass ring of popular girls, and when my new friend’s name came up, I seized the opportunity to make fun of her in order to make the popular girl laugh and like me more.

My new friend was standing right behind me.

I can still see her face as she shook her head at me in disappointment.

These are the moments that I look back on that haunt me.

High School continued much the same. A pendulum swinging between getting hurt and hurting others. Eventually, I got out. I left home a year early, completing my junior and senior year of high school at the same time so that I could escape the football, the mean person that I had become and the home life filled with my mom’s drinking and the revolving group of men she paraded through our second-floor apartment.

I wanted nothing more than to go away and become someone new.

I went to college, and in a time before social media, I reinvented myself as a girl who had never played football. And in the process, I found a confident and kinder Robin. I made friends, and they became my family. I became successful. I didn’t become Jennifer Aniston or sell the book that’s in my Dropbox (yet!), but I found an amazing wife and created a loving family with two great kids.

It’s a nice life.

So why do I find myself staring at this high school reunion invite, unable to reply yes?

What I’m coming to realize is that it’s probably because “Broken and Insecure High School Robin” still lives deep inside me. Not to sound like I have multiple personalities, but I suspect all my past Robins are in there too. That includes “Never stop talking 5-Year-Old Robin”, “4th Grade Football Robin” and of course “Dateless College Robin Who Couldn’t Get a Boyfriend Because She Really Wanted a Girlfriend”. All my past selves are inside of me, and they reserve the right to present themselves at any moment, whether it’s convenient for me or not.

I have to respect that. I have to respect each and every version of me and love them for the time and a place in my life that they represent because without them, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

But, that doesn’t mean I want to bust out every insecure part of myself and put it on display for my all my former classmates to see.

So, I skipped my high school reunion.

I do hope that one day I will make it back to a reunion though, if for no other reason than to apologize face to face to anyone that I hurt back in the day.

But, until that happens, this essay will just have to do.

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This story was originally posted August 2017. I have still not been to my high school reunion, BUT I’d definitely go in the future. Probably. Maybe. Tune in next week for an audio podcast of all that’s changed since writing this essay.

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