The first planning meeting for the 30th high school reunion of the class of 1976 of a unnamed progressive high school on the Upper West Side of Manhattan that no longer exists was really a lot of fun.

On my way to the meeting,  I found myself feeling angry: Why am I going to this? Do I really want to see these
people? What do I have to say to anyone?

Typical social jitters.

Catching my reflection in a shop window I decided that I looked
terrible but it was too late to change my clothes, get my hair cut, or have a make-over at Saks. Instead, I ordered a glass of wine at Kitchen 22, a small bar on East 22nd Street. 

I didn’t want to be too early.

When I got to my classmate’s loft, he was very welcoming, as was
another old friend who was already there. I was offered a glass of
wine and everything just flowed from there.

The host is, in a sense, the keeper of our high school flame. Somehow he
knows the whereabouts of many of our class of 30,  as well as teachers
and administrators.

As more people arrived, there was much in the way of playful arguing, laughing, interupting, and goofing around. Just like high school.  The fact that we were imbibing some very decent red wine was not at all like high school.

Someone brought a copy of our yearbook. As a group, we looked at everyone’s  page. With only 30 kids in the graduating class, everyone got to have and design their own.

Mine had a moody picture of me in a felt hat and a work shirt, as well as some  childhood
pictures.

It was interesting to read all the yearbook quotes; everyone’s message to the world.  Back then, I spent weeks trying to figure what I wanted mine to be; it seemed so important to pick just the right quote that would express what I thinking about or what I wanted people to think I was  thinking about all those years ago.

I ended up selecting an Emily Dickinson poem that my father brought to my attention. It was between that and a verse from "You’ve Got to Learn How to Fall," the Paul Simon song. Emily Dickinson won the day.

We play at paste,
Till qualified for pearl,
Then drop the paste,
And deem ourself a fool.
The shapes, though, were similar,
And our new hands
Learned gem-tactics
Practicing sands.

Over Chinese food, the de-facto runion committee talked about how we were going to get in touch with some of the more mysterious members of our class.

And we ran through the list of those who probably wouldn’t show up like the guy who ran around the auditorium during one assembly wearing a mask and screaming at the top of his lungs,

It was amazing how little bragging went on last night; no showing off about careers, children, spouses, homes, cars, second homes and all that. We were a room full of haves and have mores. That is, everyone is doing pretty well. Some are doing very, very, very well. Some less.  Money-wise, that is.

As to happiness, you can never really tell. But it did seem like a pretty upbeat bunch who are,  for the most part, happy with their lot.

That may be the difference between a 10th reunion and a 30th. Perhaps we’re all a little more comfortable in our skins now. I remember back at the 10th feeling like everyone was, in subtle and not so subtle ways, on the defensive about themselves, their careers, their relationships, their choices.

Last night’s planning meeting was really low key in that regard. I hope this ‘comfortable in our own skinness’ sets the tone for the reunion itself.

Before we knew it, it was after ten and everyone had to get home to spouses and children. Our time together passed effortlessly. Much was accomplished, too: we set a tentative date and place for the reunion. And we have a big list of tasks for everyone to take care of before the next meeting.

Keep you posted.