As I sit contemplating taking a pre-25th college reunion shower in an attempt to make my hair look more like, well, hair, I am drawn back to my long dormant blog. There is a parallel here that begs to be drawn.
I have been absent from my blog, unconsciously acknowledging, as I’m sure you likely have, that my life really doesn’t warrant an official public record updated on an annoyingly regular basis. That’s what Facebook and Peanut, my feline captive audience, are for. I now face the question of whether to attend a reunion with four people I love (one of whom I live with now, three of whom I lived with in college) and a few hundred people I never personally knew and probably wouldn’t recognize 25 years later even if I once took a godforsaken economics seminar with them.
I was not one of the popular types, or even vaguely noticeable in any way. Based on my predetermined and self-enforced anonymity, I will be forced to introduce myself, only when spoken to because I am completely and utterly inept at making pleasant chit-chat with strangers. Then I’ll smile (kind of) and involuntarily proceed to vomit the details of my life without the benefit of editorial manicuring (which is why I generally choose to write instead of actually speak out loud) that will cause each bystander’s eyes to glaze over as their gaze drifts longingly to the tray of room temperature mozzarella sticks on the buffet next to the nametag table of absent graduates who knew better.
So, if I, like the proverbial tree in the forest, just stop talking to the uninterested universe altogether, will anyone even notice? Well, my husband and kids will notice it’s gotten a lot quieter, for sure. And the cat will have a lot more time on his hands. But, other than that exclusive group, probably not.
Regardless, here I go to make the grown-up effort to get out there in the world and back into the campus center that set me loose a quarter century ago. To connect with the universe and represent myself in the space-time continuum, or whatever Doc Brown called it when he explained it to Marty McFly. Or, I’ll just forget the age-induced, insecure, self-indulgent existential crisis, let my hair curl, and enjoy the open bar for a few hours ensconced in the protection of my familiar posse. Mozzarella sticks for everyone!