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.