Reunion Jitters

I have signed up to attend my highschool reunion this year. And since then things have not been the same.

All because I will run amok if no one recognized me when I enter the reunion hall.

I have begun to work out and diet. Although there's no way I can get back my lampayatot look way back when, I should at least get rid of my spreading middle spread. I need to recover my waistline -- even if I had to hire D.I. Trece or Hawaii 5-0 to find it.

I am letting my hair grow. I have months to get back my adolescent hairstyle -- waist length, twisted into pigtails. I'd like to dare frisky Nelson Pangan to pull them again -- the way he used to just before Homeroom. And surely, I can whack him one now -- now that he shouldn't be able to run as fast. I have a tiny problem though: My hair has gone from "betcha-by-golly-wow" thick to"son-of-a-gun" thin. And shall I wear my bangs again? Someone, please tell if there's a law against a golden girl trying to look like Tessie Agana when she was Roberta.

I have toyed with the idea of wearing my old Torres High uniform. Not that I could squeeze into any of them by any contraction of the imagination. But well -- a modista should be able to rush a gold blouse and a maroon skirt to fit my present XX size. But sorry, sobrang sorry -- though I am willing to die for my alma mater (well, almost), I will die first before I wore that sorry color combination again.

I now look at my reflection everywhichway, 24/7. Now, if mirrors could complain! I see tell-tale lines and ridges even if I didnt turn the dresser lights on. Shall I call them laugh lines? But they don't go away when I have stopped laughing.

My mirror says I have grown old. No longer the "tiny wisp of a campus leader" Rolando Lampa wrote about in the graduation annual. (Actually, I had this ex-deal with him -- I also wrote nice things about Roly in my "Crystal Ball" piece.) Nor the "cutest girl in section one" Jasmin Bermudez said I was in her gossip colum in the Torch. (No, I didn't bribe Jasmin. She just had a giant crush on my cousin in the other section.)

Oh, well. I just might run amok. Who will recognize me now? I have gone to pot.

Or have I?

I probe deep into myself, the essential me that mirrors do not reflect.

I am still the same person who loves sunsets, sunflowers, the smell of kape barako brewing, mangoes ripening, adobo simmering, who loves to read a good story and to write one. My favorite people are still those who are warm and kind and funny as I can never be.

I still don't know a lot of things and I have disappointed my kids by saying "I don't know" so many times. I still can't swim, dance, sing, ride a bike, or drive a car to save my life. I am still searching for the meaning of life and only know it isn't just a big house or a sleek car, or an impressive title or trophies or plaques.

I am still lampa. The one who the other team left for last at touchball games because she's slow and bungling and easy to hit. The one who always got to be "it" at patintero and tumbangpreso games. The quientessential Binibining Atsoy.

I am still the girl who can never find the X in the simplest of equations. Over whom Miss Tanco, with all her awards as outstanding Math teacher, shed tears of frustration. But also the girl who loved to paraphrase Shelley and Byron and Browning and was the darling of Mrs. Timario, Mrs. Alejandro and most English teachers.

I am still hungry for affection, praise, approval. Still pikon over slights -- real and imagined. I am still trying to be the best mom, wife, friend, worker, neighbor I can be. Still trying to work on my relationships that have gone awry.

And yes, I am the person about to attend her highschool reunion with a mixture of excitement and dread..