Where is Christopher Guest when you need him?

If Mom101's reunion was like Romy and Michelle's, mine was like a Christopher Guest mockumentary. And I, I was the star. The one inevitably played by Catherine O'Hara.

Can I just say this now?

WHAT WAS I THINKING?!!!

One of the worst parts about going to my 20^th high school reunion was the guilt of leaving my baby at home. It was the first time the Hub and I had left her in the care of my parents, who would give her her bath, put on her PJs and read her her bedtime stories. Guilt guilt guilt. Of course she was fine with it.

I told myself I wanted to go to see my old orchestra mates, that it would be interesting to see what people looked like after so much time. Never mind that I hate crowds, and parties, never mind that the specter of Cid still hung over me as we drove in silence to the Sheraton. I might see his other friends. Those friends I'd lost touch with over the years, whom I suspected had no real desire to see anyone who reminded them of all we had lost.

It began as typically nerdy as it possibly could. We showed up on time. “I thought it was 7:20!” I groaned. “No. The car clock is fast.” Of course it is. Otherwise, we would never be on time for anything. So there. Was. No. One. There. Except of course, the organizers, who glanced at us with the glance that is reserved for those gauche enough to actually show up, you know, on time. The place was decorated with our high school's colors, orange and black. Go Tigers. The DJ blasted “Ghostbusters”. I steered the hub down the hall away from the scary room to commune with the cash gods at the ATM, then sloooowwwly meandered back. We were still the first people.

Luckily I recognized the two women working the welcome table, and they were friendly and cheerful and so happy to see everyone. “Soooo good to see you again thanks for all the hard work it looks wonderful see you later”. *gasp* I slapped on my name tag and headed for the bar. There was already an unrecognizable (except for her name tag) woman/girl there I was never more than an aquaintence to, who looked at me and said perkily “Hi! How have you been? Do you still play that violin thingy? I remember that about you” I felt my mouth twitch, and hoped the Hub's face wasn't revealing anything.

“I've been fine, you?” and what a great memory. I played the cello. The CELLO. Not that you actually give a rat's ass anyway. Hah. Not that I could remember a single bloody thing about her. I just wasn't going to put my foot in my mouth anymore that I was already destined to.

She giggled (yes, I swear to god she did) and my next attempt at conversation ended up being directed at the back of her frosty, Desperate-Housewife-Hair. I slapped a twenty on the bar, and visions of scotch and vodka danced in my head. I looked at the prices.

“Sam Adams, please.”

We found a table, after passing another with a face that was familiar, but not enough to react to her smile with more than the same smile and a nod that said: “should we talk? I recognize you, so I feel like we should talk, but for the life of me I can't think of a single thing to say to you.”

I was voted class individual my senior year. I heard later that people had wondered who to vote for, and a newcomer was given my name. “Why?”

“Just do it.” was the reply. It was a commonly accepted truth. I was, a la Pea Wee Herman, a loner. A rebel. Minus the masturbating in a Florida movie house, of course.

So as I drank my 6 dollar beer and talked with my husband, I saw that in this superlative, I was unchanged. I didn't know these people 20 years ago...I knew them even less now. I watched the room fill up, the carefully styled hair, the careful makeup, the careful clothes, all working together to fill a room of Desperate Housewives, with overweight husbands. I kept looking for Pam, for any face I could see that would actually belong to someone I'd want to talk to.

And in the mean time, The Hub and I talked through why, WHY I subject myself to all of this uncomfortable, awkward teeth grinding unpleasantness. And all I could think was, where is Pam? Where is the one woman who I can talk to who will forgive me for failing Cid? Who would tell me that she didn't blame me for what happened. Who would allow me to forgive myself. We talked about Cid in the middle of this room of strangers, and though we kept our faces to the room, no one came over to say hello, as there was no one there to say hello to. It looked as if all my orchestra buddies had wisely kept away.

There was the trio of the once super unpopular kids who were of course in reality all nice as could be, and they were almost unchanged, except the tall gangly one was taller and ganglier, the one who had been slightly overweight was now morbidly obese, and the tiny one with the thick glasses had a lighter pair and grey hair. I had a nice chat with the one I had been friendly with way back when, then went back to the bar.

More conversational attempts that ended with more hair.

After (yet another) attempt at conversation with one of the many married couples who stayed on in our hometown after I left, (are your parents still in the same house? What's your dad up to? Where are you now?) and after I finished my second beer, I said to the Hub,

“All right, one more sweep through the room, and if I don't see Pam, we're out of here.” He happily agreed.

Then, on the way out, I recognized a man who simultaneously recognized me, smiled a broad grin, and came over to talk. He was, once upon a time, the first boy to ask me out on a date...at least, his best friend did. He was too shy. We were in sixth grade. We (all three of us) went to a roller rink, where I discovered my jeans were unacceptable, and my Mom drove over to bring the one pair of pants I absolutely loathed. We skated for a while until I fell and hurt my arm. I pretended to be resting while my stomach churned and I recognized the pain as similar to the time I had broken my arm. Not quite as bad, I thought. Probably a sprain (which it turned out to be).

Now he was divorced, and happily following his dream of becoming a furniture maker. He hadn't wanted to come to the reunion. His brother had talked him into it. We chatted in a comfortable way, and I felt relieved that at least the people I had known and liked turned out to be people I respected.

Then, I saw H. I almost didn't recognize her. She was wearing makeup, for one thing, something she never wore in high school. And a red satin shirt. She had considered herself to be Cid's closest friend. She was fiercely competitive when it came to him. I felt my blood pressure rise. I was both glad to see her, and intimidated. She introduced me to her partner, who was bearing the evening with slightly glum good grace. She seemed very nice, and I congratulated them on their recent marriage. This automatically put her at ease, and it allowed H and I to begin to talk about what we were both thinking of...Cid. She had spoken to Pam. She had decided not to come.

And suddenly, I felt as though a load had lifted from my shoulders. I was free to leave. Free to shed this past forever. I might call Pam. I probably will, at some point. Just to talk. Maybe it will lead to a reunion, or not. My immediate need, to hear her say, “I don't blame you for Cid's death” was no longer so crushing. In some way, by just going into that uncomfortable den of strangers, I had forgiven my past self. My introversion, my naivete, my selfishness.

After exchanging numbers, we bid each other farewell, the Hub escorted me through the blur of familiar strangers, and we escaped.

And I never have to go to another reunion. Ever.