Class reunions.
They always seem to beg a certain question. Can you go home again? Or should you?
About a week before my recent 20-year high school reunion, I met up with a former classmate whom I'll call Reva.
Reva is attractive, funny, highly successful in her chosen career, ferociously intelligent and 38.
Oh yeah, and she's single.
That's single in the sense of never married, not divorced-single.
No kids, either.
Reva has a cat whom she adores and is visibly content with her life (as her absence of stress-wrinkles attest).
As Reva and I spoke about our reunion that was only two days away, a troubled look fell upon her wrinkle-free face.
"I'm just dreading the questions," she said.
The questions?
"You know, the questions."
It was the requisite "Are you married?" and "Do you have kids?" queries that had her unnerved.
Not because she regretted not participating in those particular life endeavors, but because answering "no" would put her in a minority.
In a room full of 38-year-olds, it was a pretty safe bet that most would be answering "yes" to both queries.
Suddenly, Reva's expression had changed from radiant confidence to shame. Only minutes ago, she had been talking animatedly about relationships that enriched her life, extensive travels throughout Europe and the Caribbean and how proud she was that her career was allowing her to make a difference in the lives of young people.
Why was she suddenly shrinking?
I quickly reminded her of how happy she had just told me she was with her life and gave her one bit of advice: For the love of God, if and when the questions come, answer them with pride.
What's the point in answering for your life choices with shame and embarrassment -- especially if you're happy with your life?
Not falling into a major demographic category is hardly reason to apologize for your life.
But I know where my individualistic classmate is coming from.
I'm neither married nor raising children. Nor have I written a novel or become a regular contributor to Vanity Fair as I dreamed I'd be doing at this stage in my life.
The truth is, I dreaded the questions every bit as much as Reva and had planned on skipping the reunion.
But at the 11th hour, I decided to go.
Whose standards were those anyway -- that I must be a married, mother-of-three novelist with books burning up the best-seller list in order to be considered a success?
That's Anna Quindlen.
It's my life I'm living.
I may not be where I want to be, but I'm doing work I love and I know that it sometimes makes a difference in people's lives.
And I've come a long way since the constant insecurity I felt at age 17.
Depending on how palatable our high school experience was and what we accomplished in the ensuing years, I think class reunions are looked at in one of three ways:
We rush back with open arms; we tear up the invitation with a ferocity that makes a paper shredder look ineffective; or we attend at gunpoint, even if it is a self-imposed gun.
So, in spite of the invisible revolver menacing the back of my head, I gave myself one hell of a pep talk and went back to the early '80s, or what I like to call B.M. (before Madonna).
The appointed lounge where we met for the occasion was suffocatingly small -- a crawl space with a deck -- which was fully out of commission thanks to raging thunderstorms.
I'd love to be able to say I had so much fun I was left breathless, but the truth is, I enjoyed the Regents exams more than that particular soiree. But I did learn a few things.
That being in claustrophobic confines with my classmates kicked my vulnerability into high gear -- my insecurities were suddenly on steroids.
Some of the graduates were just as aloof as they'd always been and I felt the same sense of inferiority I did 21 years ago. Others, mercifully, demonstrated some encouraging emotional growth spurts -- extending themselves with smiles and cordial greetings.
Through the grapevine, I'd heard that some classmates couldn't bring themselves to set foot at our reunion.
A friend of mine refused to come because she'd gained weight. Another didn't show because her husband was out of town and she didn't want to go alone.
Reva and I weren't the only ones with second thoughts.
One week after our nostalgic 80s-fest had ended, I spoke with Reva again.
We both agreed that "going home" isn't the easiest way to spend a Friday evening.
"The thing about reunions is, you're asked to revisit being who you were at 18," she said. "But it made me appreciate the work I've put into myself and the person I've become."
And what about the questions?
They were inevitable, and when they arose, Reva didn't shrink.
She smiled.
"No, I'm not married," she had replied. "I'm happy."