This past weekend, I endured that ubiquitous event, the ten-year high school reunion. Yes, you've developed your life past whatever it was you were back then, and now have the opportunity to remind yourself what you were like before you figured yourself out.

I can tell you that I had seriously mixed feelings about this event going in.

A lot of my ambivalence stems from my personality flaws. Summed up, I would likely be considered "avoidant". I don't bond very well with people. Case in point, all of my closest friends live out of state. To clarify, at one point in time, we lived in the same city. And I see them every other month or so, depending on when they fly back here. But I don't see them regularly.

Now, being avoidant doesn't mean I'm unfriendly or necessarily shy (as I was as a kid). To the contrary, I love hanging out with people. But I seem to function better when we're all doing "stuff". I hate social parties, but I love getting together and watching a movie or the big game. Or playing Ultimate. (You get the idea.)

When I was in high school, I didn't have one or two close friends that I hung out with exclusively. Instead, I did a whole bunch of activities, usually each with a different group of people. The people "closest" to me seemed to be the people who participated in more than one of those activities or were also in several of my classes. This left me in a spot where I was neither cool or uncool. I was just kinda there. I could hang with pretty much anyone, including the popular kids. But I tended to lean towards the "outcasts", because I still felt a good deal like an outsider. As I used to tell people back then, I wasn't popular - I was "well-known".

The main problem I had is the more insidious part of being "avoidant". In the depths of the mind, avoidant people want to be close to people. They want to have those bonds. But the part that gets freaked out by those bonds shuts them down. So I naturally appear to be eager to be close to someone, then suddenly appear to be eager to not want to be close to them, which typically ends up alienating them in the process. (Some people read this as me being "haughty".)

This isn't a problem when I'm doing "stuff". But at social functions, it can get ugly. Anywhere where we aren't doing "stuff" - where I can't let the "stuff" be the excuse to be around the people, I jump from group to group to group, mingling with whoever doesn't mind having me stand next to them and participate in the conversation. And here's the worst part - a lot of the time, I'm simply alone in the middle of the room, with no group to jump to. Alone among many. And a voice in the back of my head insists that I stick it out. God forbid, if I leave, I might miss something. I equate this feeling a good deal with high school, granted that I was around so many people all of the time. But, in many ways, it still haunts me today.

Usually, when I think about high school, I reflect on all the cool "stuff" I did. But there's that small percentage that wonders if I missed the opportunity to really be friends with these people. And, truthfully, once high school was over, it seemed like it was too late to even worry about it.

We had a five-year reunion. I had fun - to a point. But it devolved very quickly into a really cliquey gathering. By the end, I found myself hanging with the "outcasts", pondering how much like high school it felt. But even amongst the "outcasts", I felt those same pangs again. I felt like I was sticking it out just because I was afraid of missing something. While we were collectively laughing at the experience, I didn't really have anything to say. I felt like I was alone among many. Again.

As I was driving home that night, I swore I wouldn't go to the next one. Once was enough. I saw them, I still didn't bond with them, no reason to put myself through it again.

The invite for the ten-year came in the mail, and I fought myself. I was extra conflicted granted that it was more expensive than I expected it would be. I had a feeling that most of the cost was for alcohol, and I don't drink. (Which is probably part of the reason I dislike social parties.) With a few days to go, I was completely fifty-fifty on going or not. I decided to let chance decide and flipped a coin. Tails - don't go. I ended up flipping two out of three. Tails - don't go. So I did best two rounds out of three. Six flips later, Heads edged Tails by one - go.

But it wasn't legit. I realized that while, in my head, it was fifty-fifty, the part of me that was afraid of missing something rigged the coin flip. I kept flipping until the coin validated it. Even knowing that, I still decided to go.

Let me stop here for a second. By now, you may be wondering why this Musing seems to flip oddly between objective analysis and self-loathing treatise. Upon arriving home from the big event, I felt like crap. I felt like I'd screwed up. So I sat down and spent two hours typing out my deep, dark feelings on the matter. The more self-loathing parts of this Musing were written that night.

Case in point - here's a selection regarding how I saw the reunion when I got home.

And while there were moments that I seriously enjoyed, ... at many points, it felt like just another high school gathering. Probably an hour and a half in, I found myself in the middle of the room by myself with nowhere to go. Alone among many.

I was dreading that, and it happened. And, again, I found that there was no easy solution. I tried to look busy - grab another Coke, wander around the food table, pretend I had a reason to not be talking to someone. Once, I engaged in a far-too-lengthy conversation, simply because the person seemed interested and I didn't have anywhere else to go. Truthfully, I probably should have left before the end of hour three. But that part of me held me there. God forbid I missed something.

Admittedly, there was a really nice group discussion that took place towards the end of the evening. But as the last remaining stragglers made their way out the door, exchanging hugs and contact information, I realized I had blown it again. As happened in high school (and at the [five-year]), I had stayed too long. At the end, I didn't have anyone there to swap contact info, no one close enough to hug. I tried to play it cool, but I felt a little embarrassed. I waited for the right opportunity to slip away to my car, hoping that no one would notice my departure.

Everybody wave and say "hi" to my neuroses.

When I woke up on Sunday, I felt completely different about the evening. I re-read what I'd written, and realized that I'd completely missed the point. Some after-the-fact reflection made me realize that it wasn't nearly that bad. And, to top it off, I realized I wasn't the only one who felt that conflicted.

I recently acquired this belief that the main difference between depression and jubliation is perspective. When you're down, normal life can look like a disaster. When you're up, even the worst events just feel like bumps in the road. I'm typically down late at night, anyway - particularly during the time I spend in bed waiting to fall asleep. It doesn't surprise me that my view of the evening seemed so dire at 4:00am.

Deleting all the drama, the events of the reunion were fun. It really was nice seeing everyone again.

For starters, reflection on high school days seemed to be at a minimum. Maybe that was just me. Granted that I didn't hang out so much with the specific people at the reunion, there weren't many common stories to be told. But I think, honestly, that people were eager to talk about their new lives and what they'd experienced in the years since.

(The specific instance of the "far-too-lengthy conversation" was when someone touched a nerve, encouraging me to begin regaling one of my "life's stories". Fortunately, it was interrupted before it went too far. I've been thinking about writing them out here, just so I don't have to torture anyone with them anymore. I can just send them here to read them if they're really curious.)

My favorite moment of the evening came early on. One of my classmates had seriously thinning hair before we graduated, so it wasn't a surprise to see so little hair on his head. Another of my classmates, though, came in (somewhat unexpectedly, I guess) with about the same amount of hair. When they crossed paths, a challenge was afoot - who had the most hair. And neither wanted to back down. They asked everyone around them to judge, finally requesting the unbiased analysis of the female bartenders. In the end, the first classmate won, courtesy the slight amount of fuzz on the bald part of his head. (By contrast, the other's bald area had a big shiny spot.) It was good-spirited fun, and we were laughing our asses off.

Actually, that moment reflected one of the more interesting aspects of the evening. The five-year seemed really cliquey. This time around, people seemed to mingle around more. At least, that's how it looked. In fairness, there were far fewer "outcasts" this time around, so the social divides may have been less obvious.

That's not to say the evening was perfect. There were still some oddities. For me, the biggest was the one classmate who seemed to have arrived with a mental checklist, intending to have a thirty-second conversation with everyone there. She greeted me very excitedly, which surprised me a little, granted that I can't remember ever having a serious conversation with her during all of high school. But we started having a conversation, and it seemed to be working. She mentioned where she was living and what she was doing, which made me genuinely curious. But just as I opened my mouth to inquire, she cut me off with a "well, it was nice talking to you", and turned away. It was like the timer had run out. Regardless of how I'm describing this, I don't think she meant any harm. But it struck me as a little bizarre.

At the same time, I was a little bummed that I didn't get more of a chance to talk to some of my "regulars" that were there. One of them shouted out the "outcast" mantra about half-way through: "Why am I here talking to these assholes?" He disappeared not long after. And that really told me that I wasn't alone in my ambivalence about the gathering. Another classmate noted to me during our conversation that she was struggling with who to talk to. There just wasn't much for her to talk about with the people there.

Admittedly, part of the struggle I had over the course of the evening was the noise. It may have simply been the number of people there and the number of concurrent conversations. But it may have also been the V-shaped plexiglass ceiling over the patio area reflecting all of the noise back down on us. More than once, I was standing three feet away from someone and couldn't understand what they said. Often times, rather than ask them to repeat themselves (again), I just smiled and nodded or laughed, depending on what I guessed was the more appropriate response. In retrospect, I think that probably made me seem disinterested in the conversation.

For example, at one point, I commented to someone that I'd spotted them at an event some years earlier, but was busy hunting for a family member and couldn't say "hi". She was surprised, and I think she said she wished I'd said something. I think she said something about a party she went to the weekend of that event, and that she might have invited me if she'd seen me. But I honestly have no idea if that's what she said or not. With a larger group discussion going on, it seemed rude to have her repeat herself.

Believe me, that's just one example. At first, I wondered if my years of music-related noise exposure had finally caught up with me. But I found out later that other people were having the same problem.

Most people looked approximately like they always did, with the same tell- tale aging differences. Some people had lost weight, some had acquired a paunch. One or two looked like they'd aged twenty years, which was a little bit of a surprise. There was one girl who had great curves during our junior year, but spent the rest of high school trying (and eventually succeeding) to lose them. At the reunion, the curves were back - ahhh, score one for human kind.

I was amazed that some people had completely remade themselves. Back in high school, one particular guy was kind of awkward, skinny, a little short, and could be very annoying when he wanted to be. (One of my most cherished memories of seventh grade was the time he was duct-taped to a desk when the teacher was late for class. The teacher, rather than getting upset at the culprits, asked him, "How could you let this happen?") At the reunion, he was built like an athlete. It looked like he'd grown a few inches. And he seemed a lot more confident of himself. I was stunned. One of my other classmates (who wasn't at the reunion, but who I saw last summer) acheived a similar result. While so much about the evening felt like ten years ago, seeing changes like that made it obvious just how long ten years really was.

Okay, back to my "issues". Part of me has always wondered what my classmates thought of me back then. A good percentage of that goes to the female side, granted that I didn't date much (read: at all) in high school. I've often wondered if any of them would have gone out with me if I'd had the nerve to ask (and had the free time to work it into my schedule). Unfortunately, I didn't get any answers that night, only more questions.

And that's part of what makes reunions so odd. There's always that drive to renew or create friendships at social gatherings, but when you're seeing someone for the first time in five (or ten) years, it's hard to really put something together. Usually (at least for me), it takes hanging around regularly with someone to build much of anything. I haven't seen these people in years, and I may not see them again for years. It's also hard to ignore that you had four years to form that bond, and didn't. But there's still that eagerness to try.

The sad part was that more than one person seemed to making the effort with me, and those thoughts kept shutting it down. It's not that I didn't want it to happen. I did. But I didn't. (Yeesh.)

I relax about it now, realizing that I was like that in high school, too.

The pragmatic part of me says this: reunions are there for the evening. A chance to see people you (kinda) know, but don't see. A chance to time- travel a little. But you have to be willing to take it for what it is, and not as the great "missed opportunity". It would certainly be nice to form new bonds or reestablish old ones, but you shouldn't hold yourself to it or feel guilty when the evening ends and it hasn't happened. It should be more organic - if it happens, that's great. But forcing it can just get ugly.

I wish I'd had that advice going in. I think I would have come home feeling better about the evening. But, having had the chance to reflect on it, I'm glad I went. It was worth it just for the highlights.

Plus, seeing everyone made me realize something about our class. Admittedly, the last few years of my life have been less than exciting. My job is practically non-existent, and other opportunities haven't been calling. So I worried going in that I would be perceived as a "loser". But I realized after talking to people that we're mostly all struggling to find a place for ourselves. Some people have gone back to school, some people are working less than ideal jobs. I'm not rejoicing in a "yay, everyone's as miserable as I am" kind of way. It just made me feel a little bit closer to my classmates - it's one more thing we have in common.

Will I go to the next one? I'm not sure. If I'm comfortable enough to look at it from the pragmatic approach, I'm definitely game. If not, it'll be more of a struggle. Fortunately, though, I have ten years to go before I have to worry about it.

How much you wanna bet the decision gets made that week with a quarter?