Sometime back in 1985 — either at the end of our 11th grade year, or at the beginning of our 12th grade year — my classmates elected me class president. This illustrious position afforded three primary benefits. One was a small speaking role at our graduation ceremony — I think I read a Bible passage, which at the time was totally laughable — and two, I became the de facto chairman of any reunion activities. Third, was the benefit of putting this “achievement” on my resume for college.
At the time, I accepted my election with a lot of chuckles and grins. But those soon faded.
Our first reunion came after five whole years of separation. The next followed at 10 years and then one at 15 years (on the weekend before September 11, 2001). Afterwards, I thought that was enough reunions for me. These three came in the days before Facebook, Twitter and texting, so I had to hunt down folks like a detective. And I did it well. I somehow found almost everyone in our class.
Not that they cared, though. Despite the informative mail or pleading phone calls they received, most of these folks cared not a whit about a reunion and particularly didn’t give a rip about the effort made to organize one. Accordingly, I ignored the 20 and 25 year milestones.
I softened my tone a bit for our 30th. This time, though, I texted some of my closer friends from the class of 1986 and offered our home for a cozy dinner. This time, I was able to conduct most of the “inviting” via text. The results were the same, though.
Apparently I went to school with some of the rudest people on the planet because many times the texts simply go unanswered — or days go by before they respond.
It’s hard not to take this personally, but believe me, I do. This is the last one. This is the last time I’ll make this effort.
Rant over. Time to move on.