Countdown to 25th High School Reunion

It has been a busy week for me–getting ready to go east for my 25th high school reunion.

25 years.

Of course I have butterflies in my stomach about the ex-boyfriend and whether or not he’ll be there. Of course I have butterflies in my stomach about all the stupid things I did and whether or not anyone will remember them. I’ve already been reminded of the time I got caught peeing in the parking lot on a road trip to Ocean City after consuming large quantities of Budweiser. How come these people smoked as much pot as I did and can still remember these things? Even now that I’ve been sober awhile my memory still sucks.

Going east is hard enough for a Californian. But going east AND going to a high school reunion is a new level of pressure. And the dress code for the event is “Business Casual.” Help? I teach yoga and wear stretchy pants and tank tops. On a fancy day, I’ll throw a little skirt over my pants and add a necklace. I don’t own khaki. I don’t want to buy khaki. I cannot support khaki in any way.

My daughter has become a little fashionista while I have slid far down the fashion hill. I mean, come on, my hometown’s slogan is “Mayberry on Acid.” Not that I don’t love fashion–I just don’t bother with it much, except to watch it like a spectator sport, on the street or in Sex in the City videos.

So I was pretty proud of myself with the outfit I pulled together. Thinking it was the perfect combination of casual-California-yoga meets suburban-Washington DC-business casual, I tried on my outfit and showed it to my daughter, awaiting her approval like she was the popular girl and I, a mere wanna-be.

She took one look and shrieked in horror. “MOM-MEE! YOU LOOK LIKE A HIPPIE OLD LADY!” Now, even though I take this with a grain of salt, I could kind of see her point. My stomach sank. She crossed her arms across her chest, saying with maternal firmness, “You can wear the shoes..and the bag..and that’s it.

That evening, on red alert, I borrowed a bunch of dresses from my girlfriend Debra (the Carrie Bradshaw of Marin County). None of them worked.

My mind started scurrying over all the possibilities for salvaging my wardrobe with only two days left before lift off and no time to shop. At this point, my bedroom looks like the dressing room at Macy’s after the Thanksgiving Weekend sale. This is not who I am. It usually takes me about five minutes to get dressed.

But then I thought, why do I care so much? Why do I want to look just right? Can it be that I am caught up in the high school fever of trying to be perfect? Could it be okay for me to just let go, once again, of the pressure of pretending that I have got it all together? Could I just be myself and trust that that is enough, yoga pants and all?

I think about ex-cheerleaders Angie Maloney and Paige Luther and I’m sure that they are going to have the perfect business casual outfit, chic and cool and perfectly appropriate. I think of the guys in their polo shirts and khakis and am glad I’m a girl. I think about my new found friend, my high school classmate Diana de Avila, (we didn’t hang out in high school–although I was friends with her cute twin brother Mike). She came out as a lesbian and makes kickass music and is courageously dealing with MS. She’s clearly too cool to care what she wears.

So I borrow a little bit of her chutzpah and surrender to wearing something I’ve got. To just being myself.