Last week, I innocently decided to check my Facebook notifications. At first, it seemed like the usual: game requests, likings of my brilliant and humble statuses, birthday reminders, etc. However, there was one particular notification that made my skin crawl; someone had added me to the group for my graduating class…from high school, but it doesn’t stop there. Upon clicking on the notification, the top post was shocking enough to make a nun swear in disbelieve. Three unholy little words stared back at me: Five. Year. Reunion. It was like the grenade from the cover of American Idiot actually blew up in my stomach. There are few things in this life that legitimately terrify me and having to go back and associating with people from my high school outranks hostile weather conditions, rats, and the movie Dead Silence. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my band family, I still talk to some of the great people I grew up with, I miss not having to pay rent, and I would do some unspeakable things for Chicken Express.
To fully understand my disdain, you have to realize my hometown was only a few dance moves away from adapting the ideology of Footloose. Although I would have plenty of quotes from Romy and Michele’s High School Reunion in my arsenal, I’m not willingly going to put myself in a situation where I might be greeted with backhanded compliments. Yes, I know I am 22 and single. Yes, I know I’ve always been different, and these tattoos really suit me. No, I really do thoroughly enjoy my job. I also don’t want to make small talk with those who will use this reunion as an excuse to brag about all of their accomplishments. Yes, I know you work for Google. Yes, I saw your overcompensating sports car. No, I do not want to sleep with you because now you actually notice me. The past five years have been the best of my life, and I don’t need to prove that to people. If there are people from high school I want to talk to, I’ll reach out to them. I’ve finally overcome the traumas of adolescence, and my Zune battery doesn’t last long enough to do it again.
I spent four years of my life denying parts of myself to avoid getting teased. I had the raddest High School Musical tote bag I got for Christmas, and I only carried it once. Why? One of the guys in my Spanish class teased me about it, so I lied and said it was a gift from my grandmother, and my mom said I had to carry it at least once. I changed my outfit one night from a Rocky Horror Picture Show shirt, tutu, tights, and Doc Martins because a couple girls asked what I was wearing with little smirks. I was relentlessly teased about my weight by a couple of guys who even went so far as to mold my last name into “Porkins.”(I’ve only told like two people that, so I thought it best to share it on a public blog post). People threw out the word “different” as though it was some sort of derogatory phrase. Again, not everyone at C-town High* was terrible. I had great friends and nice acquaintances. I have some great memories I wouldn’t trade for the world. But in my opinion, the past is the past, unless you’re Marty McFly, then all bets are off.
*The names have been changed to protect the innocent…and it flows better than the actual name of my high school.
Nobody puts baillee in the corner 
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