Left Behind

Dear You,

When I studied psychology it was called approach-avoidance. The term was used to describe a condition that both attracts and repels -- a child's ambivalance towards a brutal father, for example. It is how I think about attending a high school reunion.

There is much to attract, and driving the hundreds of miles to reach that small Ohio town is an exercise in whetting an appetite. Will my pals all be there? How about that girl I spent my afternoons dreaming about all those years ago? (I watched from an upstairs window on Kilbourne Street as she passed on the sidewalk, her red ponytail swaying in time with her skirt.) Even the building itself -- what memories will it evoke, just standing at that imposing entrance?

The reality of a reunion, of course, never can match the expectation. It's not just the forcible reminders that we are on the downward slope of life and that so many (more each year!) are already dead, reminders of one's own mortality. Nor is it even the dreary surroundings -- the threadbare hall, the bland food, the over-loud background music with all those silly '50s songs. It's really that there is nothing more to say.

Classmates who left town are the most interesting; those left behind seem . . . well, rather dull by comparison. On the drive home I keep thinking that I didn't so much leave there as I somehow managed to escape. And I wonder why I will probably come to the next gathering.