On partying as though it were 1999

Two weeks from today at approximately this time, I'll be putting myself to bed after attending my 10-year high school reunion. I will likely have imbibed some booze -- likely fancy wine in order to get my money's worth out of the $75 ticket -- and made small talk with a few dozen people I only marginally care about. I will have congratulated former classmates on their new babies and impending marriages, while silently contemplating my own childless (yay!), single (boo!) status. Given the kind of high school I went to, I will have no doubt been asked a hundred times, "So, what do you do?" And given the kind of high school I went to, my honest answer ("Nothing.") will spur certain judgements about me -- you know, the "huh, BPW is kind of a loser"-variety of judgements. I am not looking forward to these conversations; small talk is painful enough without the embarassment I'm anticipating.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know this is stupid. Why should I care about these people's opinions -- people about whom I've already stated I only marginally care? It sucks to be judged, that's why. I'm having a little crisis of self-confidence and knowing that other people may think I'm losery doesn't help. I feel like after ten years I should have more to show than "I had a good job, but I quit. Now I play Scrabble every day" ...that's going to be a total conversation killer.

However, I could have fun with this predicament of mine. I could make people feel incredibly awkward by answering their "what are you doing with your life" question with a simple blank stare accompanied by a long silence. Or instead of giving some sort of explanation, I could just chug my glass of wine and then look at the inquisitor wearily as a single tear streams down my cheek. Perhaps I could pretend not to hear the question at all, and loudly proceed to ask the questioner how they've recovered from all the herpes they had in high school. That'll learn them not to ask quasi-well-meaning questions.

I have, of course, considered lying to everyone about what I do -- and not just a George Costanza-esque "I'm an architect" lie, but a different lie to everyone who dare ask. I feel like this would give me the opportunity to really flex my creative muscles; there are supposed to be 120 people at this thing, so I would have a lot of fake occupations to prepare. I can be a casting director for an Amish reality dating show! I can be a giraffe whisperer! I can be a beekeeper and honey magnate! I can be a manager at a urinal cake factory! I can be a reader of 8th grade standardized writing tests! Wait, I really did that last one...whatever -- the point is that the possibilities are endless.

In reality, I know that I will likely spend the evening sitting with the few people that I do want to see, talking, laughing, listening to high school stories that I don't remember (really, I seemed to have killed a lot of brain cells in the last decade; I have little recollection of the events I took part in). To the people to whom I'm too embarassed to admit my professional status, I'll nod in their direction and probably smile weakly to acknowledge, "Yes, I see you, person who happened to be born in 1980/1981 and who also happened to live in the same town as me in the late 1990s. I am aware of your presence in this here pub. Salutations." I'll go back to my conversation and that person across the bar will go back to his -- and that's fine. Just because we graduated at the same time from the same place doesn't mean we have to force some kind of mutual interest in each other ten years later.

Nonetheless, I know some of these bitches will be nosy, and for these people, I will be totally prepared to discuss how Amy Poehler followed me for the past year to research her role for NBC's new program Parks and Recreation.