Book

I just got my copy of “What Really Happened To The Class of ’93”. This is a book about my high school class, with specific stories about where particular people went and what they did. Some founded businesses, others got sex change operations.

I talked to the author briefly, while he was researching it, but that was the end of my participation. I’m apparently too stunningly boring (plus, I wasn’t close to any of his principle stories) to make for good reading. I’m okay with that. The big transition in my life in the last decade was the realization that I’m actually living my life seeking increased happiness rather than just increased knowledge. Turns out that wisdom, calm, and love are more important than knowledge in the pursuit of happiness. For me at least. Your milage may vary.

So anyway, I looked at the book, hefted it in my hand, and formed this opinion:

You don’t represent me. Never did. I’m not with these people. I passed through for four years, took what I could, and had a pretty good time while I was there. One friendship from that time has lasted for me, the rest have vaporized … lost in the mists of time. Besides which, I’m an almost totally different person now than I was in high school. The things that drive me, comprise me, are so inverted from then that it’s almost pointless to make the comparison. High school choir? Chess club? Junior year, the big decision of “quantitative” vs. “qualitative” geoscience? Prom? Class officers? That guy who killed himself at college? Bah. Humbug. Away with you.

I suspect that many people feel this way about high school. I still plan to read the book. It appears to be written in a fast paced, journalistic style. I’m mostly curious to see where people ended up. Maybe I could touch base with one or two of them. Rich Vuduc, Brenda McEldowney, Karen Taggart. Though in all likelihood these will be the standard, long distance contacts. A few emails. “Hi, how are you, what’s new, wow, a whole decade, you’re married? any kids?” and then the drifting into silence again as the passing urge to communicate fades or is pushed into the background by the realities of living each day.

Given a choice between staying in touch with old friends and weeding the garden, I seem to choose the garden, nine times out of ten. That’s part of the reason for this livejournal thing. It’s a little message board, a tiny book that I leave at the head of the trail. I may be out when you happen by … but you can look through the book and see where I’ve gone. If you feel like it, you can leave a note telling me that you were here.