Memories and class reunions

The prospect of attending a homecoming dance/dinner or class reunions always leaves me in a quandary. There’s a certain part of me that vaguely yearns to go and reconnect with old friends, yet there’s also a part that pulls back and dreads it.

Last month, an ex-classmate called to invite me for another class reunion. As usual, I said yes and even made some suggestions, which she interpreted as a positive sign.

Barely a week before the big day I was still vacillating between going and staying away. two days before the event, I hedged and warned her that I would be likely tied up on the same day (”of course I’ll try my best to show up, but I’m not promising anything, mind”), but for the life of me, I couldn’t quite make up my mind whether I really wanted to go or not. Just like the last few times. (Procrastination — ain’t it great?)

Postponing the inevitable didn’t help either because in my case, “maybe” usually translates to “I don’t think so”.

I don’t know. I guess I’m just one of those crass souls who prefer to let the past stay where it is. (Before you jump to hasty conclusions though, let me assure you that I don’t subscribe to the idea of totally cutting oneself off from the past. I don’t think I’d want to.)

At the risk of sounding like a cantankerous fidget, my point is that I’d prefer to preserve the past as it was — uncolored, unedited and untouched by anything that has happened since then.

And far from wanting to forget that period of my life, I’d like to state for the record that I treasure those days, along with the angst, pain, triumphs, anticipation, laughter, and anxieties that go with them. if I could, I’d like to keep those days intact — the way we looked, the way things were, the way we acted (foolish, earnest, carefree, hopeful), dressed, hankered over our respective crushes, raved about our pop favorites, and agonized over our looks.

Basically, I have this horrid fear that if I go back and hear people rehashing those events (as they almost always do, during reunions), I might realize that things were not as good as I thought they were. Or that they may not measure up to what I’ve kept in my memories throughout the years. Not even the prospect of seeing my old crush — who, for all I know, may already be sporting a beard or a beer belly — could surmount my reluctance.

Sounds illogical and ridiculously selfish? Perhaps. But if memories are all that’s left to me (of those days), indulge me in my childish folly. I’d like to believe that some things remain perfect (with all their imperfections), unblemished by time and space, no matter how old I get.