High school, baby, one more time
My high school reunion is approaching, and it got me thinking. What do my old classmates remember about me? Here’s a sample taken from Spotswood College social circles in the early noughties.
Ah, the year 2000. The new millennium. A time of millennial bug, sour lollies, Britney Spears and Dawson’s Creek. I may have still been playing with Barbies.
My desire to keep a low profile had been thwarted by being prescribed glasses and braces. I felt my world unravelling.
Friendships were political from day one. I was a group-hopper, not quite settling into one clique.
I was an accomplice in kicking girls out of friendship groups for no reason other than they had become uninteresting. There was a social hierarchy to climb, not unlike scenes from the movie Mean Girls.
Then it was my turn.
I sidestepped into a group where I found myself one of two girls vying for the third’s attention. I won out, only to lose the wider group’s respect by hosting a drinks session at home without permission.
Mum found out and ordered everyone to hand over their alcohol or leave. Everyone left.
‘‘It’s like you just wanted to be cool,’’ a friend accused. Um, isn’t that the common goal here?
Some of these girls remain my closest friends today.
My attitude to socialising was akin to my attitude to boys in those early school years, that you hung out with whoever was considered ‘cool’ regardless of whether you liked them or not. My first kiss was with a boy three years my senior who I barely knew.
It was a relief when geeks, popular kids and everyone in between began mixing regularly in our senior years. It was nice to have the pressure off. My senior year, class of 2004, was the absolute highlight of my time at school.
I had shaken off the shackles of the social climb and was enjoying being myself, studying my favourite subjects and being at ease with my all my peers.
I invited my now-hubby to the senior ball. I won a package to have my makeup and hair done and arrive in a limo. It was like a little prelude to our wedding, five years later.
The ball’s theme was Winter Wonderland but I was disappointed it wasn’t Peter Pan. I’d imagined my English teacher Ken Crawford greeting students with, ‘‘hello, children’’, Dustin Hoffman style. The drama teacher, Mervyn Chivers, would have made an excellent Smee.
There’s much I loved about school, especially that final year.
Even so, I continue to have the occasional nightmare I’m back at Spotty, late to form class, missing a timetable and behind in maths homework.
I didn’t actually pass year 12 stats, but thankfully it’s not necessary for a career in journalism. Phew.
On that note, I was almost talked out of taking the Witt journalism diploma course – the one that propelled me into my profession.
‘‘It’s an awful lot of writing,’’ the school careers advisor warned. Like doing what I loved was a bad thing.
Yet my student loan was paid off in two years, I won an industry award while working at the Sunday Star Times and I now have the flexibility to work from home.
I’m so grateful for that ‘‘awful lot of writing’’.
Now, former classmates, it’s your turn. What fun is a reunion without a few embarrassing memories, eh?
I haven’t yet bought my tickets to the 60th jubilee in Easter but maybe, with all this free publicity, here’s hoping I might not need to.
I’ll see you at the reunion! Or not?