Which brings me to my high school graduation. It wasn’t some momentous life-altering occasion where I waxed nostalgic and feared the future. I welcomed my graduation with open arms because of the need to explore what was beyond the confines of my one cop town, not because I actually hated high school.

See, High School and I were fast friends. We had a wonderful relationship. It treated me pretty well and I didn’t complain too much. No real attachment on either side. It was what every casual relationship should be: hassle-free with as little emotional investment as possible.

Me being in a casual relationship with High School. Little emotional investment.

A hassle-free moment… me teaching line dancing to our High School Spanish teacher (even though I took German)

It also helped that two of my siblings had blazed a trail of success in their wake. And though that set a rather high academic and behavioral bar that I had no intention of hitting,  it also greased my teachers’ expectations enough to allow me infinite hall passes and a bit more lenience when  I inevitably did or said something stupid. (Thanks, Siblings!) I also kind of had an “in” with the Vice Principal thanks to Darewood (you totally know that’s why we became friends, right?).

Oh Darewood!!! Thank God your dad was the VP – the catalyst of our enduring friendship.

But even though we had a pretty great relationship, when it was time for High School and I to part ways, there were no tears to shed or hints of regret eaking in. There was no wallowing in “but these are the best years of my life” moments.  Hell, if the best years of my life were going to be at the ages of 16, 17 or 18, then life has an exceptionally cruel sense of humor.

The bottom line about graduating was that I was ready and elated. It was time to move on and that was exciting to me, not scary and sad. Like I said, I didn’t hate high school. I just used it to my advantage and left it in bed without so much as a phone call the next day. I wasn’t going to miss it like some people (i.e. those still showing up at every home football game in their letter jackets at the age of 23 — you know who you are). And though I thoroughly enjoyed most of the people I went to school with, and firmly believe to this day that I was part of one of the best classes to ever grace the hallowed halls of Fairfield Jr.-Sr. High School, I was totally ready to say good-bye and start the next chapter.

I wanted to love graduation and not be saddened by it. So when it came to prepare for our final bow, I was all in. You only live once. I joined the senior or rather the graduation choir. That’s a big deal for me because I’m tone deaf (which can probably be confirmed by the lucky few who got stuck next to me on the risers at the ceremony). I think the tile in my shower hates me for belting solo renditions of anything Madonna produced in the latter part of the 1980s. But hey, I wanted to partake. I wanted to be a joiner in those last few weeks of school. I tried to have conversations with people that I normally didn’t get to have a conversation with. I thanked my teachers. I put my affairs in order and participated to the best of my ability.

I don’t remember too much about the actual event. I do remember sitting on uncomfortable folding chairs in the middle of the gym floor for a really long time while whoever spouted whatever cliché insights should be spouted to 18 year olds about to attack the big White Whale we call adulthood.

I remember the senior choir getting to sing some Green Day, which was a pretty big feat in 1998 in the rural uber conservative parts of Northern Indiana. Kudos to whichever classmates got approval for that one.

I do remember shaking our principal’s hand for the last time.

So this was totally rehearsed btw.

The most memorable and laughable moment by far was when our entire class was forced to stand and face our friends and families, taking the lyrics of Friends Are Friends Forever that had been carefully placed on our seats, to croon the sickly schmaltzy song whilst holding onto our neighbor like it was a Hands Across America repeat performance.

Yep, singing to the very friends and family who had already sat through a rather painful hour and a half of pomp and circumstance only to be serenaded by eighty-odd off-key teens taking the sentimental diddy to a whole other level of unacceptable. People cried. No, they ugly cried. It’s like our school and Michael W. Smith conspired to move the audience and graduates to feel the feels they had at the end of Schindler’s List all over again. So wrong on so many levels.

However, I didn’t cry. I smiled wider than ever before as I sang each cheesy word knowing this was the last thing the institution was ever going to be able to make me do. I found our nice casual relationship was suddenly bordering on Clingy Ex territory. It just didn’t seem like it was going to let go, and then finally, it did. It was over and people were still ugly crying but they were hugging and wishing each other well.

That was the last day I saw a fair amount of my classmates. Some of them I’d been to school with since Kindergarten, but it was ok. I enjoyed them while they were there, while we shared classes together, hit puberty together, failed miserably at magazine sales together and we were all going to take that next big step onto something greater than high school together.

All 80 something of us in our cap and gown glory. The Fairfield Jr.-Sr. class of 1998

Experiences like graduation shouldn’t make us sad about what’s ending. They should make us thrilled about what’s to come. 17 years later hasn’t changed my view on that whatsoever. Enjoy it while you’ve got it and happily move on when it’s time to go.

So, what was your high school graduation experience like?

Prom. Yeah, not really my scene. In hindsight, it was never going to be the end all be all of my high school years.

Firstly, I have no rhythm. At a club you can get away with looking the fool because you can chalk it up to being tipsy, or at the very least there’s always some yahoo twirling around in sky high stilettos flailing about worse than you. Always.

Secondly, it’s kind of lame. Overpriced dress attire, terrible food, corny photo-ops and forced mingling set to cheesy ballads and crappy pop picks. Does that really sound like an exciting night for anyone?

Thirdly, deep down, I just didn’t care.  

I will say this, however – prom was so much simpler back then. In my day, it was put on by the Junior class. The Junior class officers and elected student representatives were our prom committee and decided the theme, the colors, the decor, the trinkets, the DJ, etc. It was supposed to be their gift to the Seniors.

As a class, they were required to raise funds to pay for these things by selling magazines which was sort of a self-perpetuating money making scheme embraced by the entire community. Typically magazines are sold as annual subscriptions. What did this mean for the Juniors and their magazine sales? That every year people would need to renew their subscriptions. So as long as the new crop of 11^th graders continued the legacy of knocking on doors and calling all contacts, there was a high probability that those targets people were likely in need of re-upping their yearly magazine commitment. Thus prom would always be…

Here’s where things get interesting. The whole operation was a little competitive. Every year the Juniors would break the previous year’s record of funds raised. Every year they were driven to crush their predecessor’s final tally by selling more magazines and bringing in more dough. Until my class rolled around…the class of 1998. And this is just one of the reasons why I loved my class.

We were a whopping 81 students strong. We were the smallest class my Jr.-Sr. High School had had for many years. All other classes capped out at a hundred plus. Breaking the previous class’s magazine sales record was going to be an uphill battle from the start. It was a numbers game and we were definitely on the losing end of that one. But we’re Hoosiers, right? They made a movie about us. Underdogs overcoming adversity because of numbers… Ring a bell? (Darewood only made me watch the damn thing about 150 frigging times) The difference was – those underdogs gave a shit. My classmates did not.

We were the first class since the beginning of time, according to our Prom Sponsor, to not reach our goal. This meant we could not afford the prom we were supposed to provide.

1. We would need to seek a new location. (God forbid)
2. There would be no prom feast. (Oh my)
3. We would not be able to purchase an archway of balloons. (The horror)

Translated?

1. We could no longer host prom at the local retirement center where it was held every year. (yep, you read that right. Our school’s previous standard was that of a local retirement center.)
2. We would not be able to afford the chicken finger buffet and fruit punch fountain. (i.e. the feast)
3. No archway of balloons. (so that one’s kind of the same)

Needless to say, Prom Sponsor was devastated. And kinda pissed.

This forced our band of misfits to be a little more creative. So we ended up with a gorgeous hotel on a lake as our host site. I think we may have had a sit down dinner with gold place settings and awesome food. And we decorated with white Christmas lights instead of so many tacky balloons. It was kind of a killer change up from the old folks’ home. Not bad for a bunch of small fries that caught a ton flack for slacking in their class duties.

My peers made me proud with how that prom turned out. That said, I hated being on the prom committee. Being VP of my class, it was thrust upon me to be a part of the group preparing a dance like they were preparing for the Second Coming. I don’t begrudge the girls who went to town with their prom planning shenanigans – clearly it worked out well for all involved. In fact, I imagine most little girls look forward to prom only next to their wedding. I just wasn’t that girl (anyone who knows me also knows I had a half-assed wedding. Again, not much of planner in the big life events department).

Regardless, my class came together and conquered prom in a way no one expected. Fairfield Class of 1998, I tip my hat in your direction. We were pretty cool cats and always managed to pull off the unexpected.

Now, I only attended because I was on the committee. I made a pact with a couple of girls that if we didn’t come across dates, we’d go together. So I attended with these lovely ladies and had a great time.

Prom 1997. Me, Krista and Melissa. This is the only picture I could find off hand. I’m sure there are others somewhere. Again, didn’t quite care …

Pretty positive Krista got a speeding ticket in her dad’s Corvette that night … (totally have to call you out on that one, dear. It takes steel balls to rock a borrowed car like that at 100 mph + on their way home *wink*)

I still hated the corny photo-ops, the cheesy music and the fact my parents wasted $48.95 on a dress, but Melissa, Krista and my classmates made it fun.

I still bailed on my Senior prom. Don’t regret it for a second.