When the email invite to my 50th high school reunion hit my inbox, I uncharacteristically fired back: I’M COMING! I hadn’t attended a single reunion over the years, and for reasons too many and too deep to recount, I knew that I needed to be there, no matter what. Thus ensued a flurry of emails to my oldest and dearest friends, “Las Chicas,” Joan and Sue:
I’M GOING.
NO! I CAN’T BELIEVE IT!
WELL I AM. LET ME KNOW WHEN YOU BOOK YOUR TICKET. OH, AND LET’S SHARE A ROOM.
Talk about being presumptuous. But, we Chicas had that kind of closeness – regardless of how much time had passed. And so yes, we went, and more or less shared a room. That experience stirred the pot on some of life’s biggest themes – love and its counterpart, loss. It all started beforehand, with the intended shoes – a pair of Stuart Weitzman peep-toe, high-heeled beauties. Teetering around my bedroom for days, I fretted. My suitcase stood frozen like an open clamshell for nearly a week – such was the depth of my dilemma. In the end, a reality check sealed the decision to swap them out for the more practical but less stunning choice: a wedge heel more suited to my altered gait. One can learn to live with such a loss.
Upon arrival, we 67-year-olds were handed a lanyard which displayed our black and white senior year photo. Peering at mine, a wave of sadness filled my heart and rattled my mind: so serious, with a mere hint of a smile, no more. The loss I felt was not for the girl I had been, but for the one who never was. Was this the person my classmates remember? How will they reconcile who I was with who I later became, with who I am now? Of course, I was making too much of this. For me, the “loss” of that 17-year-old was a blessing, reminding me that so often, a loss can be a good thing when it means personal growth.
I am reflecting now, as the weeks have passed, on my classmate, “S.” Back in the day, I just couldn’t fathom her seemingly boundless confidence, her bravado and the coveted place she occupied in our high school hierarchy. It was much easier not to like her than to see that she wasn’t the issue. My low self esteem was. Over the years, I came to understand this, to heal and to emerge. I was determined to reach out to “S,” who knew nothing of my past feelings. I needed to make things right. For me. We spoke, exchanged brief life stories and shared a few memories of teachers and classes. “S” was as approachable and likeable as anyone else. In fact, despite all of her high-octane ambition, she had retired quite early to tend to her garden and to oversee her mom’s care. Her story appeared no more or less perfect than my own. We even exchanged email addresses. “Stay in touch” we both said with warm smiles. On the flights, connections and delays homeward, I reflected on this exchange with “S” and saw clearly how the loss of a distorted perception can open one’s mind and one’s heart.
There was one more monumental reminder that accompanied me on the journey home: the pricelessness of my dearest old friends, Las Chicas. We had lived on the same side of the tracks, were study partners and confidants. And, then there we were, 50 years later, holed up in a hotel room over wine and snacks, reminiscing about old times and racing to fill one another in on the highs and lows of the lives we had lived. It was abundantly clear that we’d all lost things over time, important things that matter. But, one thing we could hold onto was our forever bond of love, connection and friendship.
I brought that old black and white lanyard photo back home, too. As I looked at that serious face staring back at me, I told her how proud I was of the woman she had become, the one who had the courage and the confidence to go back 50 years in time.
