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Since late November, my landline’s answering machine has been working overtime. Nearly lost within the phalanx of telemarketers, robocallers, interest rate slashers and revenuer scammers, has been Sharon, a former classmate, who’s taken on the task of organizing our 50th high school class reunion.
Admittedly, even her mentioning her maiden name had failed to ring a bell. I had to blow off a thick layer of yearbook dust just to stir a vague recollection. Had I actually picked up the handset, that would’ve been our very first conversation, ever.
Well, since then, she’s called two more times; perhaps more, considering all the logged, no-message-left hang-ups. Hmm, might her persistence indicate she’s been encountering other classmates’ yawns, too? I dunno.
So, why my own reluctance to talk to her? Well… let’s just say that not everyone winds up with fuzzy, fond memories of their K thru 12 public school experience.
Unless one has a yen for PAIN, who’d ever yearn for the “good old days” of being subjected to snooty, snotty, yer-not-good-enough-to-be-in-our-clique ‘tudes and, worse yet, getting bullied into prolonged stretches of emotionally devastating, social isolation.
Granted, I don’t believe Sharon to have been an ally of my tormentors; she may have even been oblivious to all that crap. While I am tempted to return her calls to clue her in, truth be told, I’d much rather have her equate my telephone silence to my no-show intentions. Having yet to attend even one class reunion, why would I start now?
For fleeting moments, I’ve even entertained the notion that some of those bullies may have outgrown their odious, immature personae. Yet, why risk facing down further disappointments; indignities? To flesh that out, who’d ever want to hobnob with Mister Mike, who I’m sure still sports his permanently plastered on, I-know-something-you-don’t-and-you’re gonna die, menacing, ear-to-ear sneer.
Transcending all of that psychodrama enters the coronavirus, marching in lockstep with the ever-growing phalanx of deadly, batcrap contagious, cohort variants. Who knows, the “festivities” could all play out as a Zoom Reunion Yawner.
There’s no way in Hell that this 50th reunion will be 2022’s “to die for” event… well… unless Covid-19 crashes the party.
And ya gotta know that bugger WILL be eagerly RSVP’ing its YES!
Soooooo, Sharon, if you, somehow, get to read this, know that I’ll be RSVP’ing my NO!
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Stay Publicly / Properly Masked!
Stay Safe at Home!
Stay Healthy!
-30-
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CommonSenseTom 