This weekend, I saw Ten Years, an independent film about a ten year high school reunion. After the movie, some of its stars, Channing Tatum, Jenna Dewan, Brian Geraghty, Scott Porter, and director Jamie Linden, showed up for a talk-back. The talk-back was awesome to infinity. Channing Tatum is even more good-looking in person, like to an unreal degree. The impetus for making the movie was a bunch of real friends wanted to create something together. It was so cool to hear these super (rich) successful actors talk about just doing a project where for fun and because they all liked working together so much. Go for the Tatum, stay for the Pratt.
In Ten Years, they have this really fancy high school reunion and everyone has a lot of feelings that are everywhere and they all go on these evening long, alcohol fueled journeys to remember who they are versus who they were. It’s like if Can’t Hardly Wait had a movie baby with Garden State, but everyone is super attractive.
My ten year high school reunion is next week. I’m not going. Not just because it involves a cash bar. The cost of a plane ticket to Greensboro from New York is almost identical to that of an improv class at the Upright Citizens Brigade. Also, Facebook exists. I have seen wedding and baby photos. I can look up my classmates and glean the cursory information usually exchanged in reunion small talk. We all can. In the age of too much information, I don’t have to go to my high school reunion to know who is aging well or to squeal over people’s babies (or nod politely). I could create a catalog of the eating habits of many of my classmates if I so chose.
I loved high school. I had great friends. Some are still great friends. Ten years puts us far away from the days of getting caught in the parking lot skipping Ms. Insco’s class or feeling smugly superior to your friends because you were too uptight to skip any class. I was no Prom Queen, but I liked my classmates and I think they liked me. I will like them just as much at Christmas when I see them out at a bar or at the Harris Teeter comparing cranberry sauce versus dressing. I hate to sound like the Grinch of reunions; I’m sure everyone will have a lovely time.
To add anticlimax to anticlimax, I have neither lost love nor frenemy to lord over, nor do I have any wild success to report back to my classmates. Even if I did, those bitches would already know all about it, because it would be on Facebook.