To the Sociopath I Fell in Love With

You came looking for me when I wasn’t looking for anything. You did everything right and I fell in love with you. I cleared space to include you in my entire existence. Then you were done with me, you checked out, and I was left holding empty promises.

Apparently, I outsmarted myself, too. With my belief in theories of time, I should have known that 40 years can happen in 5 minutes.

Because of the project we started working on, some of our references to it and notes were made in personal texts, which I had saved.

I found two comments from you to me that would appear to have been made in jest:

“If I get what I want, you may have outlived your use.”

and

“You can’t hurt my feelings… (I’m a) sociopath.” (Even though I already knew what that meant, I looked it up, anyway.)

Out of everything that you said that I listened to, these were the two things I should have heard. I’m listening now. You were right. In fact, there is another point you were right about. During one of our many conversations we had discussed the idea of hiding things, and you pointed out that the best place to hide something was in plain sight. That includes the truth.

Well done! I completely missed it.

I’ve never been a huge fan of labeling. Giving a person a label has the potential to pigeonhole that person into one set of characteristics only, leaving no room for redeeming (if necessary) qualities. Labels can also keep a person stuck in a rut. In this case however, my use of a label enables me to begin to eliminate the “why” that has been plaguing me since you left. I’ve wasted too much of my time trying to understand how the man that I loved to a capacity I didn’t even know I held, who supposedly loved me just as much in return, could have dropped me so abruptly. Your own label serves a purpose for me at the moment. Right now, I need to use it in order to be able to raise my own energy, to have an answer to the “whys” that have been playing on a continuous loop. My emissions have been low, and I can only raise them one step at a time. (I don’t plan on sticking around on this step for too long.)

Besides, I can’t hurt you. Win-win.

Really, my calling you out as a sociopath is not a label but more of a statement of agreement. You said you were a sociopath and you were right. Charming, charismatic, superficial, and egotistical, living behind the delusions based on mistrust of other people and the grandiose beliefs that only you are “real”. With an uncanny ability to convince yourself that you are always right, and that you are doing things for the highest good. You use your supposed ability to live peacefully among others without argument as validation for your rightness, when actually what is going on is that you allow no one to disagree with you—accomplished by avoidance and refusal of acknowledgment. You can make promises, and hurt someone’s feelings without remorse or apology, because you don’t stick around to face what you’ve done. No one can argue with you if you’re not there. Ergo, you are always right. Clean conscience. Originally, I had mistakenly attributed that avoidance to cowardice, but have come to realize it’s a tactic to uphold your delusions. Cowardice and fear could be behind it, but the avoidance is a deliberate tool. Don’t face what you don’t want to see.

You are truly brilliant, but you know that. You have an exceptional ability to read people, and to say the right things. An extraordinary businessman. One who understands all of the strategies, including how to intersperse just enough of the personal into business dealings to achieve your desired outcome. Your knowledge of the personal is remarkable, and is exceeded only by your detachment from it.

Your ego demands honesty from other people, yet you feel that you are above adhering to it. Not to deliberately deceive someone, as in to cheat them in business-- you know that you have many other skills to get what you want without lowering yourself to that type of dishonesty. Your own dishonesty plays in with your avoidance game. The lie by omission. The refusal to face a conflicting opinion. The refusal to acknowledge that someone else may feel differently about something you may have done – or worse, that they may be right.

You promote expectations in other people’s minds, then denigrate them for having those expectations, using their presumptions against them, calling them “unrealistic.”

There’s no need for you to apologize, because you know exactly the outcome of any given conversation, because you’ve already had it in your head. Besides, if you don’t face them you have no need to acknowledge your actions and, therefore, no need to apologize.

You limit everything that is personal. You keep yourself alone and separate from the commoners, because you know you are truly different. That doesn’t mean you don’t have supporters and fans, and that is all you need. The yes-men, the people awed by your brilliance and charisma. Keeping relationships superficial absolves your full personal involvement and allows you to bask in the adoration and praise that is heaped on you even when you’re not there. He’s a great guy.

Argument or discussion are not means to the end of creating a better outcome, but are used an enjoyable pastime, a pleasant diversion--like a bar room debate--that will be shut down the moment it gets real, or if you feel you could lose ground.

I have to face what’s real. Even in light of things you may have said recently, you truly have no use for me. And I have to stop listening to your words and focus on your actions. If I mattered to you, you would show me. Period. We mere humans do silly things like that. Not just for people we love, but even people we like. Even people we just know. Agreeing with your self-title actually allows me an acceptable enough reason to stop my constant tripping on the “why.” And I have learned your limits on love and friendship—as well as your capacity for them. I accept that our definitions are different. Loners don’t need friends.

I know that the man I fell in love with was a mirage, and as distant as the moon I thought him to be. And I am not “his star” like he said, but one of the many stars he looks down on--with the exception that for a brief moment he shined his light on me. I continue to love that man anyway, as illusory as he is, because love of any kind is positive (and resistance to it was harder!), and will learn soon how to re-channel it into something even more beneficial, to more people. And love without the burden of expectation in and of itself feels good. I don't have to delete him, block him, or cut him out. I can just let him be there. I can even acknowledge and interact with him. It's quite freeing.

Thank you, my sociopath, for helping me learn that.

“I had some dreams,  
they were clouds in my coffee…”

Putting it out there: I understand that my determination to learn to be patient and accepting of what is will stir up resistance from old habits. And I will be more forgiving of myself, and not be too harsh when I have moments of lower frequency.

--If I’m going to learn fucking patience and acceptance, I’d damn well better give some of it to myself!

(Nope. Can’t go without that word even once.)

Fears, Facades, and Faith in People (and my Oxford Comma)

Tonight there was a gas leak in one of the pipes in the street right in front of my house at the exact spot where I park my car every night. I could smell it outside and called the fire department. They checked the basements of all the houses while they waited for the gas company to show. The smell didn’t seem to be coming from any of the houses; just that one spot on the street. The gentleman who work for the gas company confirmed that it was indeed coming from the pipe that was right where I parked my car. He had a mallet and some other tools with him and said that he had to do a little digging to see if the leak headed towards my house or my neighbor’s house and that a crew was on their way to fix it.

Like I always do in situations like this, I went for the humor: I offered the firemen alcohol (of course they refused), asked one of them for cigarette, and when it was time for me to move my car I demanded that I wanted it in writing that I would be safe to start it and threatened to haunt him if he lied to me. There were also borderline inappropriate jokes about phone apps and a stud finder (right, ladies?)—you had to be there. When the first worker from the gas company showed up, after he found the leak (and also found out that there was gas on the foundation of the house), I told him if he was going to blow it up to do it now before I finished cleaning, because I’d be really pissed if I cleaned the house only to have it blow up.

This was a good night for it to happen, because both of my girls were not going to be home. My oldest was working until 11 and I was going pick her up from work and drive her to her father’s house in Boston because she needed to be there in the morning. Because of that I made arrangements for my 10-year-old to stay at my friend’s house (who also happens to be my daughter’s school bus driver) so that she wouldn’t have to be out driving with me late. I know that if they had been home they would’ve been nervous.

I had about two hours until I had to leave to pick my daughter up from work, and I’d been standing outside with the firemen and the gas man, and I was getting cold. So I went inside. I was in the house alone, and I could feel the house shake every time the gas man swung his mallet and hit the ground around the pipes. And then I realized something.

I was afraid.

I will not say that I’m not afraid of anything, but I don’t usually get scared. I get uncomfortable, nervous, hot, cold, pathetic, snarky, flighty, bitchy, hungry and horny – but I don’t get scared. Not like this. I have had scary moments, but I’ve always prided myself on my ability to not react out of fear—even if I get reactionary shakes afterwards, I’ve always managed to be clearheaded in the most trying moments. 

This goes back as far as I can remember, from when I was eight and almost drowned in the bathtub when my hair got caught in the drain (I don’t think I ever told my parents about that) to a few years ago when I lost the brakes when I was driving a full school bus—of course there was that almost freak shaving accident in the shower couple years ago that I mentioned last month. I have had serious experiences; I have children – and there is always a measure of fear at points in their lives, but I don’t remember ever being afraid like I was tonight. We live in an age of terrorism. My family is military, and I was brought up to not react in fear or to allow myself to live in it. In my first blog here I referred to terrorists as bullies and got a little snarky.

But tonight I was actually afraid. This was a very new experience for me.

I have to say this is been a banner fucking year for me for new experiences.

A number of years ago when I was driving a school bus full-time I was driving a route that was undergoing construction on part of it. I bitched about it for days and the delay it was causing, especially because one of my stops was right in the middle of it. One day, about an hour after I picked the kids up at that particular stop, my boss called me on the radio and told me I wasn’t going back to that stop in the afternoon. When I asked why she said, “It blew up.”

I do not know if I have the correct information about what happened, but the information that I have has become my truth. From what I understand, it was human error and that someone hit the gas main. The house that was there exploded and, fortunately, the four college students that were inside sleeping all survived. I had heard a couple of years after that that those poor kids were still suffering the fallout of that – understandably so. Obviously, I had some serious moments of thought about that myself. I stopped there twice a day every day while that construction was going on, and that accident happened less than an hour after I was there. That was enough to give me some pause (understatement). Apparently, it also gave me a measure of fear. I park my car on that spot every single night. Despite confident assurance from the gas company worker and the fire department, I was actually afraid. But they told me that everything was fine and relatively easy to take care of. 

Because of that I had no intention of running away to spend the night somewhere else. I like to be able to trust that people know their jobs, and I wasn’t about to be a hypocrite to what I say I believe in by running scared, or to worry about the possibility of human error. That possibility is always there, for everything.

Before I go further, I want to thank everyone who has a job where “business as usual” is potentially dangerous: gas workers, electricians, construction workers, transportation workers, policeman, firemen, doctors and nurses, military personnel – everyone who has a job that carries a large responsibility with little room for error. Thank you for knowing what you do, and doing it to the best of your ability.

Every parent is aware of the façade we put on for our children when things aren’t going well. Normally, I complain about having to put on “that face”, because it’s not easy. It’s not easy to pretend that everything is fine for the kids, that you’re not worried about whether or not you can feed them or pay the rent. Or hide a negative attitude. Or hide fear. I was grateful that my kids were not around tonight. I also realize that sometimes it’s easier to forge through something when they are around and you have to plaster that confidence on. Because for half an hour I was alone in the house, and every time it shook with the downswing of the mallet, so did I.

I was determined to stick it out. Guess what I did?

I called my father.

I wanted him to confirm what I was already told, that everything was going to be fine. I felt more than silly about it, and fully expected him to make fun of me. I felt ten years old.

But he wasn’t home.

(Yes, I had a good laugh at that, too.)

Knowing that I was going to be picking my daughter up, and not wanting him to call me while I was with her, when I left my message I did not tell him why I was calling. I did not want her to know that I was concerned – and rightly so; as soon as I dropped her off at her father’s house she called me while I was driving home, very worried about me being home near a gas leak. I did what every parent would do, and I told her that everything was going to be fine.

For the remainder of the ride home I thought about the times that I’ve had to put a face on for my kids, and then for the times that I know my parents had to do the same for me. And I appreciate it. Especially now that I know what it’s like. And I thought back about specific instances where I know now that they put on the paint and spackle for me and my brothers and sisters, that I hadn’t known then. And I appreciate it.

To all of you parents out there (past, present, and future) – especially the single parents who go through it alone, know that the effort you make now will be appreciated later in some way. My father wasn’t home when I called him tonight (and you know I’m going to give him hell later!), But he did help me: first, in the gratitude that I felt for the façade he always put on for me, and second, in that happy realization that I had that – despite the turbulence of our relationship – I actually wanted to call him in that moment. I had always mourned that I didn’t have a “family home” to go back to (divorce will do that). But I know I have family to go back to. And that comforted me incredibly.

Gas leak? Smash shmeak. I have better things to think about.

(When I got home from Boston, the gas company was still here, but they said they were pretty much finished and just cleaning up. It’s 3am now, and there’s still a truck outside, but they do seem to be pretty much done. Thanks, guys.)

For the Sake of Auld Lang Syne

When I was 11 (or I was 13 and the date was December 11 – either way, there was an 11 that was significant), I made the mistake of telling my father that I wanted to be a grown-up. He was always complaining about it and telling us how lucky we were that we were kids. He made me write it down on a small piece of paper and date it (I can see the piece of paper in my mind, "I want to be a grown-up" Susie Roulusonis). He said he was going to hang on to it and shove it in my face the very first time I complained about being a grown-up. I actually worried about that for a couple of years. Then as I got older (I won’t say that I grew up), I realized that I actually liked being an adult. Every time I complained about something, the first thing my father would say to me is, “It’s fun being a grown-up, isn’t it?” trying to make me eat my words, wanting to show me how silly I was for saying that. A few years ago I started telling him that he was going to eat that piece of paper, that I would never admit it because I didn’t (or wouldn’t) ever feel that way.

-- He said one other thing to me when I was growing up that I will never forget: “You set to defy me at every turn!”

I’ll give him that. (Hear that, Dad? You were right!)

Because I’m going to do it again.

I’m 47 years old. I think I’m old enough to officially state this. I’ve had enough years in, I’ve been a parent for over 20 of them, I think I’m qualified now (still not grown up, but old enough).

I like being an adult. Even through all the stress, grief and loss, my daughter’s teenage years, marriage break-ups, bills, feelings of worthlessness, and not ever seeming to be where I expected to be by a certain age, I like being older. And I don’t wish to be a kid again.

I enjoy having my own apartment (especially when I’m alone in it!). I enjoy driving my car. I go to parent-teacher meetings not because my kids have any problems in school, but because I think it’s fucking hilarious that I’m the parent! (My poor kids!)

When we were kids, we always thought that being an adult meant being able to do whatever you wanted to do when you wanted to do it. You know what? It really does. Yes, we have things that we have to do, responsibilities that have to be taken care of. But think about it, we really do have a choice. Yes, there will be consequences to certain choices, but the options are there. And looking at it that way makes me feel like I have more choices. If I have what I consider to be free time, I really can do whatever I choose. I like that.

However:

I like looking back. I like looking over the things I’ve done. I like the fact that I can be selective about what I choose to look at, focusing only on the good times. There’s no need to go back. All time is now, right? So if I’m looking backwards, I am reliving it right now. I can be there and here at the same time.

I especially like getting together with old friends, reunions, catching up with people you haven’t seen in a while, people that you spent segments of your life with. Spending time with them and sharing laughter and memories. That ability to look back—and having enough amassed to look back at—is something we only have as adults. I am a kid again when I hang with my old friends. There are some bittersweet moments, of course, especially when someone’s absence is obvious. That is one thing about being an adult that isn’t so great. Watching time pass can be sad; but watching the people pass that we shared that time with…

But for that time that we are reliving memories with our friends and families and we talk about those who are absent, they are right there with us in that moment—then they become a part of the memory of that moment which allows us to keep them with us longer.

I treasure all of my friendships, from the people in my closest circles to those in each circle rippling out. All of you keep the best parts of my past, my history, in my present.

So I will jump at every opportunity of any type of reunion or get together and I will embrace—and wear a tiara on—every new birthday. (Sorry, Dad.)

To my friends, old and new, here or not, every single one of you that I have been fortunate enough to share moments with—any type of moment:

Thank you. You are a part of me.

Happy New Year.

A Christmas Miracle (and my 100th blog!)

I believe in miracles—or at least I say I do.

Belief is defined as the “confidence in the truth or existence of something not immediately susceptible to rigorous proof; trust; faith.”

Miracle is defined as “an effector extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause; a wonder or marvel.”

When I’m down (which usually means I’m not getting what I want, if I’m honest), I try to inundate myself with things that make me feel good. My ‘go-tos’ are usually music and movies—or movie clips, certain scenes I already know, that I know make me feel good. Sometimes I’ll venture out and watch a movie I’ve never seen, as long as I know ahead of time it has a happy ending.

I’d been very thankful that it’s Christmastime; I consider Christmas music to be the happiest music around. There is nothing like a song to comfort you, to lift you up, to say, “I feel the same way,” but I haven’t been able to listen to my own music; right now, I don’t want commiseration. Right now I want to be happy. (I do know that’s my choice.) So, it’s Christmas music and movie time. During the holiday season there is no shortage of feel-good flicks, thank God. I think I’ve DVRd all of them and have probably watched more movies late-night than the total of all the TV I’ve watched in two years. And I sit there, believing throughout the whole film that everything is going to work out right. Yes, I know they are scripted that way—what I’m saying is that I’m not even the least bit cynical, and I believe the happy endings are ‘right’ and I can go to bed with a stupid little grin on my face while wiping the happy tears off my cheeks.

I do believe in miracles. I look for them and I see them happen all of the time. My problem is that apparently my belief is that they happen around me and not necessarily to me. It must be that, because if I believed they happened to me, I wouldn’t worry or be unhappy about anything, right? Because I would know. So I question myself and test my own beliefs—or gauge where they are. Delving further, I wonder whether or not it’s really my beliefs that are in question—it could be my trust; my trust in the knowing that everything is unfolding as it should. Or worse than that. Maybe my trust issue is not a matter of trust, but control. Maybe I don’t believe things will work out for the best or better, because I think what I want is what’s right and what should be, and if I don’t have what I want then things won’t work out. Which means things are even worse than I thought. Because what I have is not an issue of trust; it’s a matter of ego. One thing I do believe is that there are things that are out of our control, and the only thing any of us really have control of is ourselves: our hopes, dreams, actions and reactions. I don’t just believe this; I know it.

So I guess I have an ego problem.

Fuck.

Because this all brings me back to my two favorite fucking words:

Acceptance and patience.

(I think I’m screwed.)

I once wrote that I felt it was time that the Universe just crossed me off and declared me “unteachable” in that. I mean, really, I have no fucking idea what it’s going to take for me to learn either—and I’ve been given some pretty harsh lessons lately.

It’s not like I don’t understand the concept. My last ‘lesson’—before I found out it was just a lesson—started off as something that looked to me like I had finally learned the idea of ‘letting things happen’ and that I was reaping the rewards, that I got my ‘miracle.’ But I was wr… wr…

—I was mistaken. 

My reaction to this has been this whole leading up to the questioning of my beliefs which, it turns out, has to do with my ego and control. I’m not getting what I want and not happy about it.

--I won’t take you through my earlier journey of “But is it really what I want?” and “Why do I want it?” (You’re welcome.)

So, I am back to acceptance and patience. I wish my execution of both could be as easy as my grasp of the concept.

That would truly be a Christmas Miracle.

****

This is my 100^th blog here at Blogger! Thank you Internet! Thank you, Google! Thank God I can type! I’m sure those that would be forced to listen to me otherwise appreciate that I have this outlet! I shouldn’t thank anyone who reads this –Your inability to look away from a train wreck is not my responsibility!

But I will.

:)

Thank you!

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I thought about what I might wish to receive this Christmas, and I made this list:

PEACE.

The peace that comes with a grateful heart.

FAITH.

The belief that all is as it should be.

STRENGTH.

For when my faith falters.

JOY.

The appreciation for all that I have.

HOPE.

To lighten the load on a bad day.

WISDOM.

The knowledge that everything is working out for my highest good, with the patience that knows everything already has.

COMFORT.

For myself and others.

LIGHT.

To shine for those in darkness.

COMPASSION.

With the tolerance, acceptance and charity of empathy.

LOVE.

The ability to love myself and the one as I love the all, without condition or expectation.

BUT INSTEAD,

I will only ask for two things:

the AWARENESS that these are gifts I already have,

and the WILLINGNESS to share them.

(Can you read this now, Mom?) :)

The Hardest Apology

It was hard. She knew she had to apologize. Slowly, she lifted her eyes and looked directly into the eyes of her accuser, who stared at her with an unflinching gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she began, her voice barely a whisper. As she went on, her voice became stronger, “You were my star, shining your love on me without hesitation or question. We were partners. Your smile made me happier than anything else ever could. And I turned my back on you. I let something else become more important.”

No answer, but the look said everything.

“I was wrong. You didn’t deserve that from me.”

She looked away for a moment. When she looked back those eyes were staring hard at her, and she could see the anger. Taking a deep breath, she went on.

“I let my pride and fear get the best of me. I hurt you, and I chose not to acknowledge it.”

Now those eyes reflected pain and deep hurt, turning to disbelief at her next words.

“I miss you. I miss your smile and how it made me feel. I miss your belief in me. I miss knowing you are always with me. I need you to be whole, and I’m asking you to forgive me. To give me another chance.” Her voice broke on her next words, “I do love you.”

The eyes looking back at hers glistened with tears, and she felt them gather in her own eyes, but there was no answer forthcoming.

She turned to walk away, knowing there was nothing more she could say.

But she couldn’t just let it go. This was too important.

She turned back one more time, and opened her mouth to speak, to plead if necessary, but what she saw silenced her.

Her reflection in the mirror looked back at her, and what she saw in her own eyes was a small glimmer of hope.

She said nothing more. That was enough for now.

The Class of '85, Reunions and Memory Lane

I am quite vocal about how much I love the Internet (especially Facebook). I love the difference that it made at our last class reunion, in the reach we were able to get ahead of time, in the ‘getting to know you all over again’ that we managed to have on the Internet before the reunion, making the actual reunion more involving, less separate.

Out of the 351 cities and towns in Massachusetts, Taunton is one of the largest (ranking, I believe in the top 25). But even being from one of the larger cities, we are still part of a relatively small pond by comparison to even just the top two largest cities, and even smaller when looking further out. And then if we looked at the group of us, from all of the high schools who graduated in 1985 the number of people is even smaller. We can break down these groups into even smaller groups; just people from Taunton who graduated in 1985, and then just the ’85 graduates of Taunton High School. Doing that makes our group limited…exclusive.

In July we are having our 30th high school reunion. A lot of us have known each other since the kindergarten or the first grade. We have a history, together. Both in and out of school. That means that each and every one of us is a part of each and every one of us. It was in an encapsulated age and period of time. When we get together as a group, we are still the kids of that time period, who look at each other as we did back then. No matter how old you feel now, your youth is still right here with everybody who knew you back then. When your identity had everything to do with your hopes and dreams and just being. Reconnecting with the people that shared that time with us allows us to reconnect with ourselves as we were. We cannot look at each other without the memory of what we were like back then being a part of it, which allows us the chance to still be that young and stupid and unique. I have never said that I wanted to go back to being that age, but we all had a few happy moments then, didn’t we? And reunions allow us to go back, selectively. The memories that get taken out and dusted off are the happier ones, the ones that make us laugh or smile. And isn’t anything that gives us a smile worth it? It can be even funnier when a single event is retold by two people who were not in direct contact with each other at the time and two different perspectives come out.

I don’t know about you, but I find it a lot more enjoyable sharing a fun story with someone who went through it with me, or who has an idea about it, than with a person I have no history with. I get tired of having to explain why the crow never flies in a straight line and what that has to do with the price of tea in China. You and I may not have had Latin class together, but if you had Mr. Parsons, my telling you the story about the day Robert F. fell asleep in class (and he sat up front) would be funny to you, because you can guess how Mr. Parsons would have reacted.

Next year we will have been out of high school for 30 years. 30 years. We are very fortunate to have made it this far, because we all share memories of the people that didn’t. Look at how many relatives, friends and classmates we have lost, then and since then. How is it we are told we keep people alive? We keep them alive by sharing what we have left of them, our memories, with each other. Do we want to only see each other and share these memories at Memorial benefits and fundraisers?

We are privileged in our opportunity to get together again.

I was a part of the 25^th reunion committee by default. When Kirk O. made the announcement that a meeting was coming up, I jumped on it as an opportunity to be social and see people I hadn’t seen in a while. When I got there, only two others were there and I became a part of it.

For that reunion, we opened up the invitation list to all Taunton members of the class of 1985, from Taunton High School, Bristol-Plymouth and Coyle-Cassidy. This was not an effort to take away from them having their own reunions, but to acknowledge the fact that they are still the people that we grew up with, that we may have gone to elementary and middle school with, before separating off in high school. After so many years pass after high school, the memories of our school days can be lumped together. When we say “I went to school with him or her,” we are not necessarily talking only about high school anymore. It’s too bad only three friends from Coyle showed up. (I was lucky because one of them was my best friend, Donna, who I shared nearly all of my life with since first grade.)

Think about this: only those of us that went to Taunton High understand the importance of the Wheat Bar and only a smaller part of that group know the Irish Blessing.

Note to Scott M.: although I am not a part of this reunion’s planning committee, if there are wheat bars at the reunion, I will personally make sure they are heavily guarded!

                                               (photo courtesy of Kristin M.S.)

Who else knows the fun we had at the Gondola after band and choir events, marching in parades, singing or performing at the lighting of The Green, when Taunton really did seem like the Christmas City? When Taunton High School was only Taunton High School—and had a usable swimming pool? Peter P. George. Highland Heights Roller Rink and Silver City Skateland, Granfield Driving School, the Boys Club or Girls Club (when they were separate). When 8^th grade was still a part of middle school and we had graduations and trips to Rocky Point. Learning the New York Hustle in gym class at Bennett School. Riding bikes to ‘the mall’ (I’m not going to call it the ‘Old Taunton Mall’ here; back then, it was just ‘the mall’). Hanging out at Side One Records and Top of the Town (spending more time there than money), getting ice cream (or just fries, because that’s all we could afford) at Bliss, and seeing movies at the Chalet and the drive-in behind it.

Tell me you didn’t smile, even a little, at some of that.

We all bought our supplies for Home Economics at Sew-Fro Fabrics.

– Yes, I took Home Ec. In sixth grade at Mulcahey school. I had to. (I made a gym bag and learned how to fry an egg inside a hole cut in a piece of bread with a drinking glass.) But I fought it. My reasons for being the un-domestic goddess that you know today go way back, having been told my whole life that “women had their place.” My grandfather told me on a regular basis that I would never get a husband if I didn’t learn how to “cook for my man.” (I certainly showed him! Of course, I don’t have one now, but I’m fairly certain it has nothing to do with my lack of cooking skills. I could be wrong, but I don’t think so.)

I hated having to take Home Ec at all, but was able to switch into Industrial Arts for seventh and eighth grade. Donna did, too. We were the only two girls in the class and were constantly picked to sweep the floor at the end of the class, because our teacher was another man who didn’t think girls belonged there.

(I guess I can also thank Mr. Bettencourt, too, for his involvement in shaping me into the man I am today!)

All the boys in that class that saw us sweeping the floor, whether they heard us bitching or not, are also part of a shared memory and experience, even if indirectly. And yes, I did make the wall sconces. And they were beautiful.

(This is still my blog.)

A number of months ago, before the reunion committee officially convened, I had drinks with two of our classmates, Kathy O. and Yvonne B. I did not hang around with Kathy in high school, in fact I saw her more in middle school and elementary school (she is one of the few people who would understand what it meant at Bennett School when Mr. O’Neill’s ears turned red). I did not know Yvonne in high school, but we are great friends now. We took a picture and I posted it to our class of 1985 page and called the picture a ‘mini reunion’. I posted it because I think it’s cool that we can remain connected this many years later, and even be closer now than we were back then. A few of the first comments on the picture were negative and had to do with us ‘planning the reunion and not telling anyone.’ I took it down after that. It was rather funny, but at the same time it wasn’t. Shortly after that, the reunion meetings started and almost immediately there were minor quibbles about who was in charge of making decisions. One of the most unfortunate parts about that is that some of the people who were the most vocal were not making an effort to be a part of things. For my own separate reasons, I am no longer part of the planning committee. But I hear bits and pieces, and the funny thing is one of the first comments I hear is that “this is just like high school” – obviously that is a derogatory comment. And while I agree with that assessment, I am also seeing that the reactions in the background conversations and possible decisions to boycott the reunion are just as ‘high school’.

In the end, it doesn’t matter who planned the reunion, or how it was planned. Obviously, yes some of these details can enhance or detract from the event – but only mildly. They are just details, and have nothing to do with what the idea of a reunion is about. Whether or not you hung out with specific people in high school, junior high or elementary school, you did share a moment of time, of your history and theirs, together. What matters is that we are still here and have the opportunity to relive the best moments of our childhood with the freedom that adulthood gives us of being selective, enjoying only the good ones with people who were there with us whether they were part of our inner circles or not, without having to worry about the lines of the ‘class status’ that were in place then, or being defined by our lives now in our jobs, marriages, children and (choke!) grandchildren.

We are each a part of each other’s history in one way shape or form, in direct friendships and then shared friends and events, neighborhoods, schools, classes and teachers, extracurricular activities, churches, Taunton, and the 80s. I may not have shared some of those experiences directly with you, but I did have many of the same experiences.

—well, some. I, sadly, have no overly crazy high school party experiences to share. I waited until after high school to get a reputation. J That was not by design; Dad was very strict. Who knows what kind of crazy party animal I could have been back then if I’d had the opportunity?

No, no one is everybody’s cup of tea. Some of us didn’t get along back then or now. We are even allowed that. But whatever our relationships with each other, nothing can change the fact that we were all there together at that time. And whether or not certain events were shared directly or indirectly, we did share them and we are lucky to be able to go back and touch them.

We are all old enough to know that we give our attention to what really matters to us. If the venue, or any of the details about the reunion, matter that much to you, show up. Or make it a point to be involved. That’s the bottom line. Understandably, some of you can’t attend meetings because you may live out of state. If that’s the case keep in contact with the reunion committee; we have the Internet now, we can use it. If you can’t be bothered, then let the decisions be made by those that do, and trust them. The class does get consulted as much as they can be if any big decisions need to be made, and plenty of things can be done over the Internet.

If nothing about the idea of a reunion appeals to you, just don’t go. But don’t let the reason for your absence be or have anything to do with what doesn’t matter in the bigger picture. That would be a real shame. Go for the right reasons, or don’t go—for the right reasons. I’ll be honest, I toyed with the idea of not attending myself. My own reasons had nothing to do with any minor squabbles about the reunion, but I am ashamed to admit they were no less ‘high school’ (actually, they were…maybe more like ‘junior high’). But I also realized that it would be a shame to let one reason possibly cause me to miss another smile like I got the last reunion, when Donna and I were once again the only ones dancing and Chris M. came up to us and said that seeing us together alone on the dance floor was like a “flashback to Mulcahey School.” 

(Thank you for that smile, Chris.)

I hope to see you all there.