Hello, My Name is GEORGE

It may have been the approaching tenth anniversary of 9/11. It may have been the frustration my husband and I have endured trying to start a family over the last eight years. It may have been realizing my dad’s 66th birthday would soon be here, but he wouldn’t be. It may have been the horror that yes, I graduated high school not one, but two decades ago. 

Whatever it was or wasn’t, I have to admit, I struggled with my high school reunion. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed myself, and it was wonderful to see and talk to people I haven’t (and even have) glimpsed over the last 20 years. Still, I felt a little heavy from something I couldn’t quite single out.  

It’s funny (ha-ha!) how events tied to celebration and joy can evoke sadness. Except for the first holiday season after my father’s death, I don't remember ever having a blue Christmas. Yet I know there are plenty of people whose hearts ache with every twinkling light, every falling snowflake, every fa-la-la  and ho-ho-ho. 

"Huh?"

Though I doubt anyone noticed, I was the 38-year-old clown in street clothes whose heart ached at her 20th reunion. Maybe that’s why I just surrendered and became GEORGE. 

Parchment High School’s 1991 Class Clown (along with Jason Wheeler—who was and is, I’m ecstatic to report, the riot of the party) had to shed the serious by not taking herself serious. 

Welcome to Jackass, section BS of Deflection 101. GEORGE is here to make you chuckle, or at the very, very least, scratch your head and mutter “huh?” If you’re looking for Amie, she promises (really!) to make the 30th. If she can locate her prom dress and coat herself with enough "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" to squeeze into it, she’ll be the one in the "Green With Envy!" Circa 1988. 

We weren't merely freshmen (well, I was). Me and my date, who shall remain nameless for his own safety.