H igh school trauma has the half-life of uranium. So it was crucial to prepare for my husband's 40th reunion. In some ways, the pressure was worse than if it were my own. We went to the same high school, although I'm younger by a whole year. Which, when you're 17, is practically a generation. Older, then, was a good thing. The seniors had status; they always seemed cooler. His girlfriend was demoralizingly pretty and popular. His buddies were confident, broke rules -- and my heart raced to pass them in the hall. And his class had Brad. I loved Brad. For a few weeks, he loved me, too. Or so he said. At the reunion, there was a chance he'd show. Here's the unwritten rule: Anyone who has (1) royally screwed up or (2) become famous enough to impress your children does not attend. My husband was blasé. In high school, he was a star. In life, he hasn't done half bad either. He had nothing to prove; he just wanted to see old friends. For me it was more complicated. Despite four years as a varsity cheerleader, my social status had been shakier. At the reunion, if anyone was kind enough to speak to me, I figured I could hold my own with the career and kids. And hey, I did marry the senior class president.
We all know what really matters, though. So two weeks before, I tried on three outfits and let my daughters judge.
"The skirt's good, but not the top."
"Oh God, no."
"I like the boots, but the sweater's got to go."
The morning of, I got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen.
"Black? In New York? Really?" my 17-year-old said.
I changed.