Nothing More Than Feelings (The Blunder Years – Part 2A)

(Let’s start a post related to the 70’s with some bad 70’s music)

Feelings, nothing more than feelings,
Trying to forget my feelings …...*

One of my responsibilities for our 40^th year high school reunion was to collect ticket money for the event.  It was exciting to see which classmates were attending when the mail arrived each day. Some of these people I had not seen in 40 years.  But one envelope caught my attention before I even opened it.  I stared at the return address. Connie is coming, wow, all the way from Wyoming. (name and location changed)

This was somehow significant for me.  She could be considered a first love, an old flame, or whatever, and I had not seen her in 40 years.  As I recorded her reservation, I noted that her husband would not be traveling to Ohio, but her sister would be attending the event with her.

For some unknown reason, I kept thinking about Connie and our past relationship over the next several days.  Not because I still had feelings for her.  Obviously, I did not.  If I did, that would be ridiculous because it had been 40 years and there is a definite statute of limitations on feelings.  So definitely no feelings, no feelings whatsoever. 

But it did bother me that I was unable to remember how the relationship actually ended.  We had casually kept in contact for a time after graduation.  Connie was going to a nearby college and we exchanged letters, though not love letters, throughout the summer.  The romantic interest had faded by that time, but I guess we were both just keeping our options open.  However, the letters stopped in the early fall, 39 years ago.  I didn’t know who ended it or why, but I didn’t think it was me. Of course, I have no idea why I can remember these old details when I can’t even remember important stuff that happened last week, but it is definitely not because I still have any feelings, because I don’t.  No, no feelings.

Then surprisingly, the mystery about how the relationship ended was soon revealed.  A couple weeks before the reunion, Stuts (his real name is Tim, but he deserves a cool nickname), had published an e-directory of information he had collected from our classmates. I read that Connie has been married for 39 years.  Now I don’t need my MBA degree, my keen data analysis skills or even a calculator to figure this one out.  Still, I took some solace in the fact that I was not rejected, but replaced.  And this fact  was meaningless in the big picture, since all my other options closed a mere seven months after the letters stopped when I met my wife-to-be.

As the reunion approached, I felt some uneasiness about seeing Connie again.  Not because I still had any feelings toward her, because I don’t, but because I thought it could feel awkward.  And I hate feeling awkward, because it’s so awkward feeling awkward.  It’s even awkward for me to write about feeling awkward.

In order to deal with this anxiety, I told myself that the relationship was not substantial, was brief and really hadn’t meant anything to me.  Maybe we were both just pretending. In actuality, it wasn’t even real. This new perspective was effective and I calmed down.    

So, there was absolutely no reason to fear anything about Saturday night. Connie’s husband would not be there, so there would be no awkward comparisons.  Not that I was worried about that, being a noted author and all.  And there were no feelings, none at all, hey no worries, no problems.

Still, just to make sure there were no awkward moments, I thought it best to devise a master plan on how I should interact with Connie that evening.  Not that I am a control freak, or anything resembling a control freak, because I’m not.  The plan was necessary to make the evening go smoothly and not because I have any old feelings for her, because I don’t.

I would greet Connie with the obligatory “It’s so great to see you again” and customary hug.  I then would tell her “we’ll talk some later”.  As one of the hosts for the event, I would then excuse myself to greet other new arrivals.  After dinner, I would go over to Connie’s table and engage in short, polite, conversation and then disengage. I would not introduce her to my wife, because there is absolutely no need for that.  Because that would be extremely awkward and I really wanted to avoid that.

The big night arrived and I was in the middle of a lively conversation, when I glanced over and saw her. Our eyes did not meet as much as they locked. I think engineers used this type of human response when they invented missile radar locking systems.  My current conversation ended abruptly. Can’t remember who I was talking with or what I was talking about, heck I don’t know, maybe I even stopped mid-sentence.

I was immediately drawn across the room, I think this is the concept scientists used when they invented magnetism. No words were spoken before the hug.  The hug was surreal, there was no tension, it was relaxed, it was totally natural.

Feelings, wo-o-o feelings,
Wo-o-o, feel you again in my arms*

Connie seemed delighted to see me. Of course, I was happy to see her, but not that happy, because I have no feelings. No feelings, nope, don’t feel it.

After the hug, I told her how good it was to see her and that we would talk more later.  Just as planned, more guests arrived and I excused myself to greet them. I love it when my plans work perfectly. I was feeling good and even a little smug, at this point.

But the evening was about to take a bizarre turn and spiral completely out of control.  I was in the back corner of the hall munching on some free appetizers (they were homemade by classmates) and talking sports with the husband of a classmate, when I almost chocked on my cheese chunk.

Way over in the far opposite corner, all by themselves, I saw my wife and Connie engaged in conversation.  How was this even possible?  As planned, I had not even introduced them earlier, but they had apparently met on their own and were now talking up a storm.  My superb plan had started to unravel like an old sweater.

“What could they be talking about?” I wondered. My first inclination was to sprint over there and put a stop to this.  Then I realized they might be talking about me. That possibility made me consider running out the back door and never coming back.  

And this just wasn’t polite, “I just met you” conversation, either.  There were laughing and chatting just like best friends.  Again, how is this even possible?  They just met and they have nothing, absolutely nothing, in common, right?  Oh --- oh, oh, oooooh.  Okay, so apparently, I have a “type” – a personality type, if you will.  I would strongly have denied this was the case before that evening.  But now it appears that obviously, I do, and I never deny things that are obvious.

It was impossible for me to concentrate of my conversation with this distraction happening in my sight line.  I was glancing over every twenty seconds or so, hoping desperately that Connie and my wife would stop yacking away.  Finally, after what seemed liked hours to me, they had parted.

However, a few minutes later, as I continued to hob nob with my classmates, I noticed my wife quickly walking towards me with a big smile on her face.  She obviously had something important to tell me, what could it be?  

“Good news, Connie and her sister are going to sit with us!” she exclaimed.  I smiled wildly and proclaimed. “That’s great!”  She then turned and departed.

Great, that is just great. Really, really, great. It was amusing that my wife was so happy that her new best friend was going to sit with us.  But now my seemingly perfect plan was holding together as well as a seeding dandelion in a tornado.  I began to experience a mild panic attack.  My pulse quickened, my breathing intensified and I felt my blood pressure rising.  I attempted self-talk to calm down “It’s going to be okay. You can do this. Everything will be fine”, I told myself.  And that worked, the panic attack stopped, for about all of 30 seconds, until I remembered:

The joke, the joke, THE JOKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

After dinner, Stuts and I were doing a short comedy routine (with me wearing a hippie wig).  We would state some interesting facts about our classmates (from Stuts’ e-directory) and then make some funny quips about them.  Stuts had

insisted we include that Connie now lived in Middle-of-Nowhere, Wyoming to the skit. I initially had trouble coming up with a good joke about this, so I went with this:

Stuts: “Connie lives on a ranch in some place called Middle-of-Nowhere, Wyoming and rides horses every day.

Me: You know, I really liked her in high school.  In fact, I planned to marry her.

Stuts: Well that explains it!

Me: Explains what?

Stuts: She obviously moved to Wyoming so you couldn’t find her and those horses are for a fast getaway, if you ever did!

There was no way, absolutely no way, to tell that joke with my wife and Connie seated a few feet from each other.  I knew the joke could upset my wife, and was taking an obvious risk.  The joke could also embarrass Connie, but I never anticipated her sitting at my table.  This had the potential for a huge disaster.  My master plan was now subject to a nuclear explosion, fortunately I was in control of the detonator.

As a more severe panic attack started, I needed to find Stuts right away to tell him we had to cut that joke from the routine!

-      Will Don be stupid enough to actually tell that joke?

-      What is going to happen at that table during dinner?

-      What 40-year old secret will be revealed?

Watch for the thrilling conclusion in Part Two of this post coming to the blog site soon!

  * lyrics by Morris Albert

Every Picture Tells A Story – The Blunder Years (Part 1)

When I think back on all the crap I learned in high school --- mama don’t take my Kodachrome away – Paul Simon

In anticipation of our 40^th-year high school reunion, Carol thought it would be a swell idea if everyone used their senior yearbook photograph as their Profile Picture on Facebook. I thought this was a horrible, massively horrible, idea.  However, since I was helping organize the reunion, I felt pressured to comply.  Ironic that high school reunions enable us to relive our high school experience and now as a result of this, I was feeling peer pressure. Wonderful!

I actually liked my photo when it was taken, but over the years I had come to find it rather distasteful.  I could never imagine the circumstance that would cause me to ever post this thing on the Internet, where millions of people around the world could all simultaneously spit out their respective breakfasts’ when this hideous image popped up on their screens.

Maybe no one will actually do this, I hoped.  But then profile pics from dozens of classmates started hitting my Facebook feed.  Maybe I will not be able to find a photo to post, I reasoned.  I wasn’t going to search the attic, where somewhere there are numerous copies. My best bet was to find a worn, wallet-size version, which I saved in an old manila folder years ago.  I thought it would take some time to search for it, which was fine.  I wanted to be able to tell my classmates, “I tried to find the pic, looked everywhere for over 30 minutes, but no luck.”

I made a big mistake when I asked my wife for help finding that folder. “Why don’t you check the box in the office that has your mother’s old stuff?” she asked.  Three minutes, in three minutes, I was holding a six-by-nine framed copy of the notorious photo.  Now I remember, this photo was always prominently and proudly displayed in her living room until her health deteriorated. The photo most certainly wasn’t hideous to her.  Instead it was tangible proof that I was cherished.  I was her only child, a child she never, ever, thought she would have.  The photo was part of her “shrine” to me.  So while I hated seeing that photo each time I visited, it was actually my mother’s way of telling me how much she loved me.  Why is it that we only see certain messages, long after the messenger is gone?

I carefully remove the photo, scan it, and position it in the Facebook profile, still I am hesitant to post it.  My wife walks by, sees me staring apprehensively at the screen, and asks if everything is alright. “Oh, everything is fine”, fine until …… click.

So here’s the pic.  I thought it might cause a reaction on Facebook, but I wasn’t ready for this. The photo blew up my little section of the Internet.  Here, it was even bigger than Kim Kardashian’s butt.  Okay, nothing is bigger than that, but you get the idea.  I have never posted anything on Facebook that came close to generating this much interest.  The final total: 112 “Likes” and 48 comments.

Of course a popular topic of conversation was the abundant hair of my youth.  People usually don’t believe me when I tell them I once had long, flowing, hair.  Now I do have proof.  My Facebook friends pointed out that I had nice tresses.  Several people questioned whether I was wearing a wig.  Others wondered how it was possible to lose that much hair and still be alive.   One guy sarcastically asked how I managed to create the “side poofs”, this I commented back, was accomplished by the use of something called “an electric comb”.

The haircut was known as a “Dutch Boy”.  This style let me grow my hair long without parting it down the middle.  My hair does, oh excuse me, did not naturally part down the middle.  And guys in the Kenmore class of 1976 did not use hairspray.  If you were ever caught using hairspray, you would have been labeled, excuse my strictly 70’s parlance, a f@g.  All my college photos show my hair parted down the middle, due to a more refined, accepting, environment. 

And yes, the sport coat is ugly by today’s standards, but the 70’s was a decade of horrible clothes. At one time I had a pair of green plaid pants, cuffed, of course.  I even wore platform shoes, and at nearly 6’4”, the last thing I needed was to be any taller.  I still remember banging my head into doorways, hard enough to see stars, because of those ridiculous shoes. But I wore them anyways, because it was the 70’s.  I only could afford a couple sport coats, so this was my best one, and it was considered rather snazzy at the time.

However, I was amazed by the tremendously positive response to the pic from the ladies.  Apparently, I was a stud back then and didn’t even realize it!   The younger women liked the pic, the more seasoned ladies like the pic, even some foreign chicks liked it. Yes, all types of women, many of them who are indeed, “hot”, were grooving to that 70’s guy.

My former classmate Mike claimed that the reason he couldn’t get a date in high school was because all the hotties were only interested in me. Someone else compared me to Prince, Prince Valiant.  Gail posted that “Kim had the biggest crush on you”.  That one actually brought a tear to my eye. Kim was a sweet, pretty, girl and I had no idea she liked me, but sadly  she was one of the first of our classmates to pass away. 

 And not only was I a stud, I was also a rock star.  Several people asked if I was one of the Beatles.  Yes, I was the fifth Beatle, the one who couldn’t sing or play guitar.  Another person thought I was in the Partridge Family.  Yeah, that’s it, I was Donny Partridge.  Unfortunately, I got kicked out of the group after I was caught “practicing” in the back of the road van with Susan Dey – ba- ba, ba, ba - ba,ba - ba,ba,ba.  But by far the strangest comment was that I had the Justin Bieber look down, years before he did.  But if that were true, there would have been girls swooning over me in high school and I’m sure I would

Donnie Bieber?

have remembered that. If Bieber did steal my look and make millions, he will soon be hearing from my attorney.

The marvelous response on Facebook caused me to take a new look at this photo from a detached, more objective, perspective.  Well, the kid looks much more handsome than I ever remember seeing in any mirror.  I guess teenage girls aren’t the only ones with appearance image issues.  The kid also appears very happy, but that is partially an illusion. I was happy, but not “that” happy.  I remember the photographer being smokin’ hot and when she smiled at me and told me to smile back, this is the look you got. You see, some things never change.

I also see a young man with tremendous potential, something I never realized at that time.  I had a lot more going for me, than I ever knew.  This lack of confidence did hinder me some, but I have still done very well.  No one ever achieves their full potential, but over the last three years I’ve accomplished much. So it took the kid a long time, but he finally got there, and getting there is what matters most.

And after all those admiring comments from the ladies, I am considering losing 80 pounds and growing my hair back out into that Dutch Boy.  I think I’ll skip the jacket, though. Shouldn’t take me that long ….