Humour: Amanda Blair
Would Amanda Blair survive her school reunion? And what became of the school spunk? Here’s to the most nerve-wracking party of your life.
THE INVITATION TOOK my breath away. Had it been that long? Would they remember me? Would I remember them? Would we have anything in common? Would I like them? Would they like me? Most importantly, would she be there?
The girl who caused me sleepless nights, sweaty palms and, on more than one occasion, stress-induced diarrhoea. The girl who said I had no friends and fat ankles. Could I face it? Could I face her? Was I grown-up enough? Had my arse grown too big? Had hers? Please, if there is a God, I pray her arse has grown.
After much to-ing and fro-ing, and what should I be wear-ing, I replied that, yes, even if the school bully was there, I would attend my 30-year school reunion.
I got nervous. The husband didn’t understand, telling me to just go and have fun. But fun wasn’t a word that I always associated with high school. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness; it was the age of acne and the age of bad hair. Going back there, even with the buffer of a pre-paid three-course meal and drinks package until 12am, was still painful. Because it forced me to look in the mirror at the girl I once was and as my mother will attest to, that sight wasn’t always pretty.
But it wasn’t for my school mates either, right? We’ll all be in the same boat, won’t we?
Nearing the date, I started inventing excuses as to why I couldn’t go – interstate distance, kids sporting activities and, importantly, I was on orange duty. But just as I was about to pull out, I pulled out the computer instead and looked at which former classmates of mine had RSVP’d.
Despite the fact that some of the Facebook profile shots had been excessively photoshopped (namely mine), I could still recognise my bygone buddies. When I read that one of my girlfriends had become a dog breeder, it had me at woof. How could I miss this opportunity to find out where we’d all ended up 30 years down the yellow brick road?
The evening arrived and here they were, the class of ’86. Sure, age had wearied some and the years condemned others. Some had married, some several times. Some were single and some were sadly no longer with us. Some drank too much, some started crying and some had man-boobs. One chap even spent the entire night walking around apologising to everybody for previously being a git, and the school bully thankfully was a no-show. The school spunk was now a balding father of three. I animatedly recounted to him that wondrous night at the Year Eight social when, dressed like Cyndi Lauper and with my lips smeared with Revlon’s Pink In The Afternoon, he escorted me outside into the moonlight to have my first ever pash. It was a slightly awkward moment when he confessed to having no recollection.
My three besties and I hadn’t seen each other for years, but we picked up right where we left off. Nothing had changed, except none of us had to produce fake I.D. to get a drink and rather than talk about which blokes were “hot”, instead we spoke about how “hot” we were dealing with our peri-menopause.
The reunion laid to rest many questions
I’d had over the years about my former classmates, but the most important question was solved. Apparently there is a God. Somebody saw the school bully recently at a party and according to them, her arse is now enormous.
ABOUT THE WRITER
Amanda Blair lives in Adelaide with her four children and a husband she quite likes when she sees him. In her spare time, she talks a lot and sometimes does it on the radio and the telly.
None of us had to produce fake I.D. to get a drink.