If I could build a time machine (not a TYME* machine), I would go back to 1992.

I would tell my 17-year-old self NOT to run for senior class president. I would say, “I know you think it’s going to look good on your “resume” but honestly, you’ve already been accepted to college and no one is going to care.” (I would also tell myself to start toning down the bangs. I still hadn’t let go of 80s hair).

The only time people care about the senior class president is in increments of five years post-graduation. When you’re expected – pretty much by yourself – to organize class reunions.

I am still close to a few high school friends. I talk to them regularly and hang out with them when I’m visiting my parents. But after that, I don’t have a huge desire to hang out with the other 130 kids from Jefferson High School.

Not that high school was a bad experience for me … it was just, well, high school. I wasn’t in the girl clique that got dates, but I wasn’t on the outskirts of popularity. I basically bided my time until college, where I blossomed (and grew out a bad perm). And since then I’ve moved on – 1,914 miles away from the rural Wisconsin town.

Back in 1997, I helped organize a five-year at a bowling alley. I was living in another state at the time and worked weekends at a newspaper. Couldn’t make it. (The news of the night: A historic church burned down from a lightening strike and Princess Diana died).

Then in 2002, we had the big 10-year. With the help of a few friends, we made it a gala event. Rented space at the golf course restaurant and hired a DJ. And we were $300 short in paying the expenses. The majority of people showed up after dinner, so they didn’t have to pay the ticket (therefor not contributing to rental fees and the DJ). We passed a hat to collect some of it, but it was a nightmare that ended up on my credit card.

So now it’s 2007. And I find myself with very little interest in organizing a 15-year-reunion. I’ve suggested to a few people about just meeting at a park, or one of the local taverns. But I’m washing my hands of it.

Was I more of a “leader” in high school than I am now? Maybe. And that’s OK with me. At least I have much better hair now. 

Lola, 32, Seattle

(* TYME: What native Wisconsinites call an ATM. TYME machines were the nation’s first ATMs in the 70s and stand for “Take Your Money Everywhere.” If you’re outside of Wisconsin and say “I need to find a TYME machine” people think you’re an idiot.)