Reunion With Yourself

Read what you wrote in someone’s yearbook a few decades ago.  Boy, is that enlightening.  It was a little unsettling to realize that, 35 years later, I have the same smart ass personality.  Only the handwriting has changed.  I didn’t bother to look at my pictures.  The horror!  The horror!

I enjoyed a mini-high school reunion with three girlfriends, one of whom brought a yearbook.  It was fun reading autographs, even if they were in someone else’s yearbook, because it involved a little time traveling into my own past – kids I knew back then, fashion trends, popular phrases, etc. 

I realize it was a bit narcissistic to see what I wrote, but curiosity usually triumphs.  Coincidentally, earlier in the day, two of the women I was visiting had shared a French class with me in school, and we had been discussing our teacher, Mrs. Vandenburgh, who inexplicably wore nylons with the same pallor color as that of a chemo patient.  “Fermez la bouche!” frequently hurled across the classroom at my friends and I.  Later in the day, I see that I wrote in my friend’s yearbook, “I still think Mrs. Vandenburgh looks like an owl.”  I started laughing.  Forgot about that part.

Two of my friends started huffing about a classmate (whom I didn’t know very well) who, apparently, was a bitch on steroids to them and, kind of joking, suggested they create a Facebook page, “I hate Rhonda Simpson,” and begin a campaign, “Let’s see if we can get 1,000,000 fans.”  

Nice to learn that maturity does not necessarily come with age.  Thank gawd.


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