Why I Almost Skipped My College Reunion
Why I Almost Skipped My College Reunion
Let's put grief on a shelf so we can talk about the fun that is anxiety.
EDITOR’S NOTE: Grieving the death of a pet hits people hard. For some, I think it hits harder than losing a human relative. If you are interested in talking about the loss of a pet for a future edition, please share some details at the form I just linked.
Last weekend was my 25th college reunion and it seemed like I had the following conversation over and over again:
Other person: “I can’t believe more people from our class didn’t come.”
Me: “Yeah, 50 people out of 500 is light.”
Other person: “I wonder why.”
We would go through the list: the scourge of youth travel sports teams interrupting lives, job circumstances, high school graduations and proms1, and people who have just disconnected from their college days and left it far behind them.
My former college roommate2 was the only one to bring up the most obvious factor.
He and I sitting at our table inside St. Bonaventure University’s Reilly Center3, drinking Miller Lites during the main alumni reception when he admitted he wasn’t sure that he wanted to come. He talked about the anxiety of attending these events, worrying about what people thought of him, his job, and what he looked like. He said that while he wanted to see everyone that he didn’t want to wrestle with the baggage that came with it. He also said that it was important for him to go, lest he live like a prisoner to these feelings.
I’m not so far off from my former roomie. I dug my heels in about not attending this year’s festivities and for no real good reason. There wasn’t anyone I was dying to see or something I was afraid of missing. I wasn’t interested in spending time making small talk and having throwaway conversations about nothing, so why spend the time and money to go? But, there was an x-factor in my decision making: a 5-foot, three-inch tall brunette whose name is next to mine on my mortgage.
My wife wanted to go.
She didn’t care who was going. She didn’t care what events were scheduled. It had been about 15 years since we were on campus and she wanted to go, husband be damned.
So, we went.
And I was wrong. Again.
I had a good time4. We wandered campus. I went into the library for only the fifth or sixth time in my life5. We checked out our old dorm rooms. We noted that the student center smells almost the same today as it did a quarter century ago6. I violated federal law7 and tried my old P.O. Box combination to see if it would work8. I caught up with my old on-campus internship supervisor and spent a lot of time talking to my old roommate and his wife. I reconnected with people I haven’t seen since graduation weekend and some others that I realized I wanted to talk more frequently with.
About 1 in 5 American adults live with anxiety9. I’ve mentioned my own struggles with it before. Anxiety is a road block. It’s a self-isolating mechanism that you are often powerless to deprogram from and it could lock you up in one of two different ways:
Your chest tightens, heart rate increases and breathing becomes shorter in anticipation of whatever you are heading towards, whether it’s another day of high school or your former college campus. It stokes the “what if…” thinking of whether you live up to an imaginary standard of your own making, even though everyone else is not much different than you are. It instills self-doubt and makes you question your success, your life, and whether you want to explain who you are to anyone. You become a prisoner of your own Alcatraz, shackled in leg irons and handcuffs, parading yourself from point to point on display for everyone to comment on and discuss in hushed tones. Or at least you think that’s what they’re doing.
You know all of that shit from the last paragraph could happen, so you decide to skip the discomfort and shut down your participation before it event starts10.
Anyhow, I mentioned to my roommate that I really don’t enjoy making small talk and that I wasn’t really looking forward to having the same “What are you doing these days?” conversations over and over again. He agreed but pointed out that the discomfort of small talk is how we get the ball rolling: “What else are you going to say? ‘Hey! So you’re still alive. How is that going for you?’”
The jerk made a point.
He said that every conversation he had that day was uncomfortable11, but the discomfort was the price you pay for admission into a group that you only see every few years.
So, what was I anxious about?
There were some people I didn’t necessarily want to see, but none of them were attending and I knew as much in advance12. I’m trying to be less bitter and grudgy in my middle years but at the same time, I didn’t want to spend money to be around people that I didn’t care for.
I’m not a supermodel by any means and age has done things to all of us, so I was in the same boat as nearly every other person in my class. A few pounds heavier. A few shades grayer. I’m not going bald, so that’s a plus.
My job and family situations are strong.
Was I grieving the loss of what once was? I don’t think so. I wasn’t one of those people who hung around the college after graduation because I couldn’t let go13. I don’t miss the rancid hangovers I used to give myself, but I also wasn’t a five-night-per-week partier in school.
I guess the point with anxiety is that there isn’t always a reason beyond the anticipation of the event, so you either chance it by going and seeing how it all falls into place or don’t take the risk at all. I was firmly entrenched in the latter until New Year’s Eve, when after one too many cocktails14, my wife got me to commit to going in front of a group of our friends from college15 and I couldn’t turn back.
And, look, those friends from college? In three weeks, eight of us and our kids are going to go on vacation together for the 24th or 25th year. I loved my time at St. Bonaventure. I love the people I met and remain friends with. I met my wife there. I wouldn’t trade anything for those days16.
Yet, I still didn’t want to go.
The fear that people with social anxiety disorder have in social situations is so intense that they feel it is beyond their control. For some people, this fear may get in the way of going to work, attending school, or doing everyday things. Other people may be able to accomplish these activities but experience a great deal of fear or anxiety when they do. People with social anxiety disorder may worry about engaging in social situations for weeks before they happen. Sometimes, they end up avoiding places or events that cause distress or generate feelings of embarrassment.
— Social Anxiety Disorder: More Than Just Shyness, National Institute of Mental Health
In retrospect, I’m glad I went.
I met people from my neighborhood. A couple that lives around the corner from us graduated from the college 30 years before we did. I hadn’t met them until the aforementioned reception.
I reconnected with one of the first people I met on campus, who has spent most of her life on deployment with the U.S. Army.
I spent most of Saturday evening talking with a couple that I haven’t seen in 10 years, and we picked up our conversation right where we left off.
And I saw my old roommate, who reminded me that being part of something requires you to get out of your own head and move forward, as uncomfortable as it may be.
What a jerk17.
Final thoughts, but not on finality…
Dirt Nap is the Substack newsletter about death, grief and dying that is written and edited by Jared Paventi. It’s published every Friday morning. Dirt Nap is free and we simply ask that you subscribe and/or share with others.
We are always looking for contributors and story ideas. Drop a line at jaredpaventi@substack.com.
I’m all over social media if you want to chat. Find me on Facebook, Twitter/X and Bluesky and LinkedIn. I’m on Threads and Instagram at @jaredpaventi.
If you or someone you know is in crisis, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline or chat live at 988lifeline.org. For additional mental health resources, visit our list.
I don’t want to think about the fact that I’m old enough to have had a high school graduate. As it was, the oldest just turned 14 and it’s a little much for me to handle.
He and I lived together for three years and the first couple of weeks of my senior year.
It should be noted that I haven’t seen or spoken to him since 1999.
This footnote is for my wife: There, are you happy? I had a good time. I admit it.
I was a journalism major. Give me a break.
Elementary extrapolation says that works out to about 100ish of the 500ish people we graduated with.
A-FG-JK. It did not.
Grease from the cafe, a hint of chlorine from the pool, musty uncirculated air with the tinge of fresh paint.
Case in point: School absenteeism rates have exploded since the pandemic. Why face the social and educational pressure cooker of high school when you can hide at home?
I’m going to mention here that he has his own struggles with mental health that date back to when he was in high school and he was always upfront and honest about what he was living with and going through.
The alumni office had a list that was updated every few days with the names of people who were coming.
I’m thinking of the scene in St. Elmo’s Fire — quintessential yet dreadful movie — where Rob Lowe tries getting a job at his old frat house.
Tequila, man. Tequila.
Ironic, right?
Well, maybe. I could have done without the stitches in my scalp from taking a chunk of ice to my dome during the first snowball fight of 1999. And maybe I wouldn’t have done the thing that got my email privileges revoked. That one is a longer story for another day. Just suffice it to say that I was stupid and lost.
I kid. I KID!