This weekend I headed home to attend my twenty-year high school class reunion. I still have a hard time believing that I’m old enough to have been out of school for twenty years, but then I look at how my boobs have sagged and how my hair has changed color (without my permission, mind you!) and it all becomes clearer. I could be all ‘sunshine and roses’ and tell you that high school was the best time of my life and that the memories I have from those four years are irreplaceable, but I’d be a lying, saggy-boobed, gray haired big mouth.
For me, high school was only a means to get to college. If I had my preference, I’d skip straight from lip-syncing “Sylvia” in Gina Davis’ carport to my first day at Shepherd. But alas, I had to hurdle puberty and boys in order to get from that starting gate to the finish line. Don’t get my wrong, there are things about high school that I more than loved – friends I wouldn’t give up for a million bucks – but those four years are still simply just a piece of my life quilt…the ratty, torn, piece that you have to include because your great aunt with cataracts sewed it for inclusion.
High school was filled with too many stupid boys, one of which I’m proud to admit is now in federal prison for murder. I sure know how to pick ‘em, huh? That's another post for another day. TRUST ME!!! It was also filled with tough relationships between myself and my family and going from a beanpole to growing aforementioned, once-perky boobs. Thankfully my father and I learned how to communicate, my sister and I became closer than I ever could have imagined, and I grew many other lumps and fat pockets that didn’t make those boobs seem so bad.
Singlehandedly, the best things about 1987 through 1991 were these people: Nick Martin, Justin Wright, Ginny Layne and Mari Yentzer. These five kooks were my fellow Forensic Team members – those that were my age and those that stuck it out for four solid years side by side with me. Just to be clear, Forensics is not simply the study of dead bodies in search of evidence and trauma. It is also the term used for team public speaking and debating. We did a lot of crazy shit on the activity bus during those years, but autopsy was not one of them.
There were many other team members that were part of this group, some older and some younger than us, but we were the core 5, the trouble-makers, the singers, the drama queens, the pains in the ass. Our fearless coach, Mr. Painter, whom I also spoke of here, either loved us or hated us – never both, and never somewhere in between. When we won competitions, which we did often, we were loved. We were hated moments after when we shouted the Grease soundtrack at the top of our lungs from the back of the mini bus. Deep down I think Mr. Painter appreciated us keeping him awake, but he yelled anyway. It gave him something, other than singing along, to do.
The five of us met up this weekend for our reunion and I have to admit, we really haven’t changed all that much. We still jockeyed for attention, tried to command the floor with our stories, laughed out loud at every comment each other made and reminisced deeply. We told stories that made us spit our beer and reminded each other of things that we would long prefer to forget.
This team was my family for four years. I didn’t realize how much I missed them until we all spent five hours together on Saturday. I’ve made a promise to myself that me and my saggy boobs will be better at staying in touch.
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