Class of ’88

by sjbgilmour

A funny thing happened yesterday.  I was away from work for a couple of hours, and when I returned, I found on my desk my old yearbook from 1988.  Apparently my father had found it. I’d long considered it gone, along with many memories of high school.

Oh, it was fun to browse the pages and shudder at my own awful hair, only to find relief in seeing I wasn’t the only one who had such terrible coiffure.  As for the acne…  Oh man.  I’m glad I’m not a teenager any more.

yearbook

However, flicking through that book brought a lot of memories back.  It was quite an experience.  I think tumultuous  describes the sensation best.  I recognised and remembered faces of people I’d forgotten.

I remembered girls I’d had crushes on throughout the final years of my schooling.  There were surprising few, actually, which is kind of a relief.  I remembered some others, who, thinking back to that period, might have had crushes on me but I was too dumb or arrogant or (insert adjective here), to do anything about.  I remembered all the awkward insecurities, the misguided overconfidence only a teenager can have,  and the bafflement of being somewhere I felt I truly did not belong.

I remembered friends with whom I should have stayed in contact.  Also, I remembered those people who weren’t friends that I was glad to leave behind.  I remembered the bullies and the teasers, who made it their business to remind me I didn’t belong whenever they had the chance.  I remembered being less than perfect.

Doubt came in.  Was I bully too?   I know I was a jerk at times, but hopefully no more than everyone else whose delightful mugshots I perused in that purple-bound tome.  Do other graduates see my photo and shudder?  I hope not, but I’m sorry if that’s the case.

Then I brought the book home.  Together, Superwife, The Wonderkids and I went through it.  Something inside went “click!”  I’m glad life turned out the way it did for me.  I’m happy now.  I’m happy and in love with Superwife.  The Wonderkids make me feel better than any drug could possibly do.  I may not have fitted in or belonged at high school, but in House Gilmour, I do.

Sam

 

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