Tonight my daughter is at a disco. With boys. Tomorrow night she goes to a party. With boys. Am I worried? Just a wee bit. She's quite attractive (in my opinion), nearly my height. Fortunately, she towers over the other 12-year-old boys, a frustration for her. I know how she feels. I was the height I am now when I was her age. I had a huge crush on Andy Livingston. He was several inches shorter and only went for the cute, short girls. His loss, I say now. Back then, it was a tragedy.
I worry about her and boys because boys were a huge disappointment for me. Then when they became men, they were even worse. I didn't get my head straight about men until I was 31. I slept around a lot. Well, they were always there. And I drank a lot in those days, so my inhibitions were down. And I got myself involved with guys with substance abuse problems, mostly alcohol. My boyfriend in college was an alcoholic. My first husband was an alcoholic (though he got himself off the booze). Finally, I asked myself what it was about these alcoholics that was so appealing because they sure as shit didn't treat me right. The answer was absolutely fucking nothing.
Why the reminiscing? Well, not that I've been tagged, but I've read other people's blogs about the music they listened to when they were 18, and it brought back memories of when I was 18 and involved with College Boyfriend. We were on, we were off when he went back to his law-school girlfriend, we were on again when he realised just how gorgeous I really was, we were off when I cheated on him, we were on again, we were off again when he cheated on me, we were on, then off, then finished when I turned 21 and got my first job and lots of male attention.
Oh, my checkered past. I really don't want my daughter to have one. But I have to let her discover what she likes and doesn't like. I hope that by marrying a man who respects me and her, I will have ensured she has enough self esteem to get her through the next difficult years. I hope she stays well away from alcohol (and will tell her that) and drugs (because I did a lot of them too, though I have fond memories of them). I hope her sexual relationships are few and loving. I am ashamed to admit this but I can't even remember how many guys I had sex with. I was talking about this with my friend at my reunion. Most of us were having sex by the time we graduated. Ideally, I'd like my daughter to wait till she's at least 18 to have sex, though hormones might make her behave differently. My friend feels the same about her daughter (the other daughter is already married). We don't want our kids to drink to excess as teen-agers (something we did all the time) or to try drugs (we also were getting high all the time). I'm surprised we're still alive.
So I'm ruling out a lot of fun for them. But only because I know better. And I do KNOW better.
Showing posts with label high school reunion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label high school reunion. Show all posts
Friday, 22 June 2007
Wednesday, 13 June 2007
I'm baaaack
Sometimes you have to go back to where you were to see how far you've come.
"Let's ask that man with the three rat dogs if he knows the way," I suggested.
"Yeah, you can get there, but it won't be easy," he told us in his thick New Jersey accent.
Ten minutes later we stood at the door of our former classmate's home. Should we knock or just walk in? Heart pounding, I swallowed hard and pushed the door open. I saw two vaguely familiar women deep in conversation. With trembling hands, I put my nametag on.
Any trepidation I felt was quickly eased when someone shoved a frozen margarita in my hand. The party had begun.
As in any high school, we had various cliques: the cheerleaders, the Hispanics, the popular girls, the geeks, the study nerds, the athletes, and the floaters. I suppose I was a floater, a bad girl who didn't fit into the other categories. After 30 years, the barriers between the groups have blurred. We are all women now, with 30 years of life between us as we are and us as we were. Hostilities are forgotten. Kindnesses are remembered. Respect is the order of the day.
My 30th high school reunion, which many people thought I was brave or stupid or both to attend, was a highly emotional experience as I was reunited with women I believed I would never see or speak to again. There were 68 of us bright young things in the Class of 77. We terrorised the nuns at our small all-girl Catholic high school because when we did things we did them in concert. Even the good girls. We were guilty of lots of things, but looking back at our yearbook, our biggest crime was one of fashion. Lots of stripey tops and dresses. Questionable hairstyles. Wide-legged, high-waisted trousers made of polyester that wouldn't melt in a fire.
The statistics
One of us has died, in a motorcycle accident. One of us is a widow raising an 8-year-old on her own. One of us is still trying to get pregnant with the last egg in her ovaries. Two of us are grandmothers. A few of us have gone through or are going through menopause. Many of us are mothers. Some of us have lost one or both parents. About 20-30 percent have been divorced. That same percentage or more have been married 20 or more years. Two or three have never married. No serious disease that I know of (e.g. cancer) has struck any of us. At 47-48 we are at a good place in our lives: still healthy, many with grown children, the struggles of the past resolved.
The party
On Friday night we gathered at our former classmate's lovely home. My friend and I were late because we'd fallen asleep after drinking a couple of beers in the afternoon when we got to the beach. We'd talked and talked and then slept and slept. About 40 women showed up at the party, including the two women I thought I'd never see again. Six of us went back to my friend's beach house and proceeded to stay up and talk and talk and talk. The next morning we got up early. My friend made bacon and eggs and we all talked and talked and talked. Cliques represented were athletes, cheerleaders, Hispanics, and floaters. By afternoon, my cheeks hurt from so much talking and laughing.
That night we were to meet at a local restaurant for drinks and food. Husbands and partners were invited to this event. Those of us on our own commandeered one table, from which I never left the entire evening. Others would drop by the table for a chat, some introduced their husbands. But the husbands and partners were mostly left to their own devices. The only sour note of the whole event was a drunken guy from the boys' school who crashed the party. In high school he'd dated one of our girls. She spent the night hiding from him. He thought it would be cute and clever to tell my friend what her drunken ex-husband has to say about her. It wasn't. I tried to tell him to shut up about the ex, in the nicest way I could muster. But drunks don't listen. We all scattered at the end, forgetting to tell each other goodbye in an effort to escape the drunk. But we have plans: a cruise to the Bahamas to echo our senior cruise (during which we ran riot through the ship, causing the nuns all sorts of heartache), and a joint 50th birthday party.
It all went too quickly. I wanted to stay and talk and talk some more. We've calmed down a lot, which is a good thing because otherwise we'd be dead. No more sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. Our eyesight is going. Our hearing's kaput. Drugs are illegal and sex is very risky. It's a different world for our children. And we want to keep it that way.
"Let's ask that man with the three rat dogs if he knows the way," I suggested.
"Yeah, you can get there, but it won't be easy," he told us in his thick New Jersey accent.
Ten minutes later we stood at the door of our former classmate's home. Should we knock or just walk in? Heart pounding, I swallowed hard and pushed the door open. I saw two vaguely familiar women deep in conversation. With trembling hands, I put my nametag on.
Any trepidation I felt was quickly eased when someone shoved a frozen margarita in my hand. The party had begun.
As in any high school, we had various cliques: the cheerleaders, the Hispanics, the popular girls, the geeks, the study nerds, the athletes, and the floaters. I suppose I was a floater, a bad girl who didn't fit into the other categories. After 30 years, the barriers between the groups have blurred. We are all women now, with 30 years of life between us as we are and us as we were. Hostilities are forgotten. Kindnesses are remembered. Respect is the order of the day.
My 30th high school reunion, which many people thought I was brave or stupid or both to attend, was a highly emotional experience as I was reunited with women I believed I would never see or speak to again. There were 68 of us bright young things in the Class of 77. We terrorised the nuns at our small all-girl Catholic high school because when we did things we did them in concert. Even the good girls. We were guilty of lots of things, but looking back at our yearbook, our biggest crime was one of fashion. Lots of stripey tops and dresses. Questionable hairstyles. Wide-legged, high-waisted trousers made of polyester that wouldn't melt in a fire.
The statistics
One of us has died, in a motorcycle accident. One of us is a widow raising an 8-year-old on her own. One of us is still trying to get pregnant with the last egg in her ovaries. Two of us are grandmothers. A few of us have gone through or are going through menopause. Many of us are mothers. Some of us have lost one or both parents. About 20-30 percent have been divorced. That same percentage or more have been married 20 or more years. Two or three have never married. No serious disease that I know of (e.g. cancer) has struck any of us. At 47-48 we are at a good place in our lives: still healthy, many with grown children, the struggles of the past resolved.
The party
On Friday night we gathered at our former classmate's lovely home. My friend and I were late because we'd fallen asleep after drinking a couple of beers in the afternoon when we got to the beach. We'd talked and talked and then slept and slept. About 40 women showed up at the party, including the two women I thought I'd never see again. Six of us went back to my friend's beach house and proceeded to stay up and talk and talk and talk. The next morning we got up early. My friend made bacon and eggs and we all talked and talked and talked. Cliques represented were athletes, cheerleaders, Hispanics, and floaters. By afternoon, my cheeks hurt from so much talking and laughing.
That night we were to meet at a local restaurant for drinks and food. Husbands and partners were invited to this event. Those of us on our own commandeered one table, from which I never left the entire evening. Others would drop by the table for a chat, some introduced their husbands. But the husbands and partners were mostly left to their own devices. The only sour note of the whole event was a drunken guy from the boys' school who crashed the party. In high school he'd dated one of our girls. She spent the night hiding from him. He thought it would be cute and clever to tell my friend what her drunken ex-husband has to say about her. It wasn't. I tried to tell him to shut up about the ex, in the nicest way I could muster. But drunks don't listen. We all scattered at the end, forgetting to tell each other goodbye in an effort to escape the drunk. But we have plans: a cruise to the Bahamas to echo our senior cruise (during which we ran riot through the ship, causing the nuns all sorts of heartache), and a joint 50th birthday party.
It all went too quickly. I wanted to stay and talk and talk some more. We've calmed down a lot, which is a good thing because otherwise we'd be dead. No more sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. Our eyesight is going. Our hearing's kaput. Drugs are illegal and sex is very risky. It's a different world for our children. And we want to keep it that way.
Tuesday, 5 June 2007
Heading Home
Now to continue this tagging game, I'm supposed to tag 8 more people. However, the bloggers I follow have already been tagged. But if anyone out there reading this wants to be tagged, either for the first time or once again, consider it done. And let me know so I can read them.
I'll be heading back to my home town on Thursday for my 30th high school reunion. This is an American ritual in which we go back to see the adults our peers became and to see if we look better than they do. So I've been dieting (lost a bit of weight), got a spray tan (I AM going to Florida. I don't want to look all pasty with everyone else looking tan). I'll be staying on the beach for two days with my friend J., who is the only one I've kept in contact with from those days. No kids. No husbands. Just the girls. I'm looking forward to it. Then I have to see all my family, which expands by the year. They all keep reproducing. I told them there's such a thing as birth control. Hubby will be holding up the fort here on his own. It'll be interesting to see how he gets on. I'm back on Wednesday and will let you know all about it.
I'll be heading back to my home town on Thursday for my 30th high school reunion. This is an American ritual in which we go back to see the adults our peers became and to see if we look better than they do. So I've been dieting (lost a bit of weight), got a spray tan (I AM going to Florida. I don't want to look all pasty with everyone else looking tan). I'll be staying on the beach for two days with my friend J., who is the only one I've kept in contact with from those days. No kids. No husbands. Just the girls. I'm looking forward to it. Then I have to see all my family, which expands by the year. They all keep reproducing. I told them there's such a thing as birth control. Hubby will be holding up the fort here on his own. It'll be interesting to see how he gets on. I'm back on Wednesday and will let you know all about it.
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