Nearly 20 years ago now, I went to my first high school reunion. It was also my last. I didn’t stay long, only a couple hours, largely because it was sooooo boring.
It really shouldn’t have been. Suffice it to say that the experience has jaded any thoughts of going to subsequent reunions, if only to save me from going postal in the middle of the soiree because I was bored out of my mind.
Why? To understand, let’s hop into the Wayback Machine and travel ever so briefly to my high school reunion. My reunion took place at three different places: a cowboy bar in Sea Tac, a ballroom in a hotel the following night, and a state park picnic area on Sunday.
Let’s stop at the cowboy bar mixer first. O.K., good times! I even befriended a few of the so-called unpopular classmates and we spent the night driving through the city, remembering all the crazy things we did back in the day.
Based on this mixer, I really looked forward to the formal dinner the next night. I was single at the time, not dating anyone, had just gotten my first job in public relations and was a Seafair Pirate to boot. What a great set of credentials to even up the old score a bit with the “popular” crowd.
And then the wallets came out. Oh, you know the ones. Here I was filled with tall tales of trips to the Caribbean, meeting famous people, having an exciting dream job and looking really, really good for the first time in my life.
No one cared to hear about these things. They just wanted to see what was in my wallet. Lord knows, they had theirs at the ready. Photos of moppets making their first doo-doo in the potty, taking their first awkward steps, little Jimmy’s first t-ball game, the new son-in-law who bagged his first five-point deer… the wallet went on and on, like in those cartoons where the clear plastic holders just tumble out onto the ground with a clackity-clackity-clack.
I didn’t have a wallet. Sure, I had a daughter. But I only had one photo, and only because I thought I should have it with me in case she came up missing and the police needed something for the sketch artist.
O.K., I am exaggerating a bit there, but not by much. I have never had a wallet like that. Not even all these years later. In fact, I don’t even have a photo of my daughter or son in my current one. Nor my grandchild.
It’s not that I don’t love them or that I’m not proud of their many accomplishments. It’s just that I’m too busy living life myself, so my wallet is pretty full of the stuff I’ve done.
It has always struck me odd that people are so excited to share the accomplishments of their children or grandchildren, but never pop out photos of their trek up Mt. Everest or their first day in Thailand. It’s as if their entire life’s purpose was to pop out a few rugrats so they could be something in this world.
I guess this would be fine if their children carried photos of their father or mother on their trek to the summit of Mount Everest or partying it up with Kid Rock in Aspen. But kids don’t. Geez, my 15-year-old son doesn’t even have a wallet, let alone photos of his dad’s amazing adventures.
Worse, people want to show me every single one of these photos. Not only show me, but tell me meaningless facts about each and every one. “This is Willie. He’s a track star at No One Gives a Shit High. Here’s his mom. She won the cow shearing blue ribbon at the Just Kill Me Now County Fair last year.”
Oh, to get those moments back in my life.
Here’s the deal people. I won’t bore you with the accomplishments — big or small — of my children or grandchildren if you won’t bore me with yours. Yes, I love a Facebook post about these things, that’s the perfect place for it, since it’s the digital version of This Is Your Life. But if I see you on the street, tell me what you’ve been up to. I knew or know you, not your children, children’s children, your children’s children’s children.
Tell me what you’ve been doing since I last saw you. Where did you go for your last vacation? Did you get that sailboat you always wanted? Did you ever become an architect like you said you wanted to be in high school? What was jail like?
You’d think after 55 years on this big blue marble we call earth, you could have something to share about your life that isn’t about what your children or grandchildren did. Our life is not measured by what others do, that we only view as spectators. It’s what we do as participants.
If you were to put all your life’s milestones in that wallet, you will have me for hours. I will even offer to buy you a drink or two as we go over all the trials, tribulations, joys and heartaches you’ve experienced in your walk in this world. The photos can cascade to the floor and roll right out of the door of the bar and I will happily mull each and every one as you recount the moments that are your life. Just don’t show me photos of butt-ugly babies or your son the doctor. I will nod quizzically for a moment, then excuse myself to go to the bathroom so I can find some way, any way, to flush myself down the toilet to escape.
If you do share your life with me, I will regale you with tales of my own, the things I have done since the last time we saw one another, when our lives were so much simpler, far more predictable and every dream could come true.
Just don’t expect me to have a lot of photos. Some of the best things in my life remain uncaptured on film, and in most cases, I’m very thankful for that. Once I tell you the details, I think you’ll be thankful too.
In the Emerald City, wondering what’s in your wallet,
– Robb