You get a call from a college friend who describes you to others as her “brother in the best and worst sense of that word”. Except you *never* get a call from this person, which can only mean something dreadful. And it does, because she’s asking you to serve with her as co-chair of the 20th Reunion Committee for the University of Chicago’s Class of 1995.
And it’s the worst idea anyone has ever had – not just because you’re kinda lazy, and sorta disorganized, and hugely distracted, and generally terrible at this kind of thing, but particularly because you’ll be working closely with her, which has always spelled disaster. Memories of past fiascoes flit through your mind:
- a 1993 visit to Yellowstone in which you refused to speak to her for the last four days of the trip (including the entire drive home, where she skipped Mount Rushmore to spite you);
- a 1994 spring break trip to the beach when it rained the whole time and you fought over which movies to see, and when to see them, and whether Mister Jones by the Counting Crows was a tired song yet (it was not);
- a mid-90’s party at her home in rural Illinois which required you to borrow a buddy’s car in order to attend and help set up speakers and other equipment in her barn, and at which you became so flustered from your interactions with her that you locked the keys in the car while it was running, in front of a bunch of amused rednecks who were blaring Bocephus over the speakers you had set up;
- a 2001 visit to San Francisco in which she threw her drink at you in a bar – wait, wait . . . maybe that was a drunk you, intentionally spilling your own drink on her? Yes, yes it was you. And then your other buddy defended her honor by throwing his drink on you. So, um, nevermind that one.
Anyway, these and countless other altercations, conflicts, debates, and general bickering sessions flood back into your mind. And there is absolutely no way you’re going to do this.
And then you say “yes”.
Wha-what?
Maybe it was the wine, or some lingering effects from the concussion you suffered eight months ago, or the fact that you really just haven’t had enough to complain about lately, but you inexplicably find yourself agreeing to do this.
And days later, a member of the university staff is calling you, and talking details about gift options, and recruiting, and outreach. And it sounds like you should probably be taking notes, but you haven’t taken a freaking note in over ten years, and you’re not about to start now. And besides, this dude sounds like the kind of guy who sends followup minutes via email after his phone calls. (He is).
And he explains your role as gift chair, and says that some people aren’t comfortable with the role because they are embarrassed about soliciting money for the school, but he was told that this would not be a problem for you. And you immediately want to ask what he was told, but also you don’t want to ask, because the idea that the institution which handles your college transcript might somehow believe you have no shame isn’t something you are prepared to handle at the moment.
And then he sends you the followup email. And later he sends you a class contact list. And then he’s submitting emails that he has ghost written for your signature. And you’re like “no way do I write like that” and “where are the jokes?” and “this needs a few strategically placed F bombs”. But you grudgingly admit that you should probably dial it back a little because this IS formal correspondence from the University of Chicago after all, and not your personal blog.
And you ask him “what about Facebook? We should totally leverage social media.” And you’re excited because you’ve seen a rare opportunity to use your Facebook powers for good. Also, you got to use “leverage” as a verb.
But he’s hesitant, and suggests that this could be discussed by the broader committee once it is formed. And the idea that a committee might be called upon to discuss what you plan to post to Facebook is simultaneously absurd and hilarious.
And then he calls you again, and you’re like Jesus, what are you, my ex-girlfriend? And he wants to walk through about twenty minutes of questions he has about your experience as an undergrad. And he asks you for your favorite memories, and you can’t answer “getting stoned and eating burritos”, so you say “socializing”. And he asks you to describe your classmates, and you can’t answer “evil nerds” so you say “quirky”. And he asks you which professors had the most dramatic impact on you, and you can’t answer “that one Race Relations prof who gave me an A even though I skipped every class and wrote the final paper in forty-five minutes on the morning it was due about how I was biracial”, so you say “David Bevington. No wait! William Veeder, the professor who wore a belt and suspenders to class every day.”
And it occurs to you that maybe you’re the wrong sort of person to be serving on the Reunion Committee. And that maybe this is exactly why you should be serving on the Reunion Committee.
And then he asks you why you give money to The University of Chicago. And as you begin to answer, you’re suddenly seventeen-years-old again, and you have no idea how you’re going to pay for college, and your mom is in the kitchen on the phone to the financial aid office repeatedly, and then you get the letter in the mail, and they totally came through for you, and somehow, with a complicated mix of grants and gifts and loans, they’ve managed to finance everything you need for a better education than you could have ever imagined. And it laid the foundation for everything awesome in your life. And you met your wife there. And you met the self you would become there. And the idea that there could be another seventeen-year-old kid, standing in the kitchen, hoping against hope that somebody comes through for him stirs something at the very core of you.
And now you’re proud to be doing this. And you text the classmate who got you into this, because you’ve actually got a few ideas that are starting to rattle around in your head, and you fire off several questions/suggestions. And it’s been like three minutes already, and she *still* hasn’t answered. And gawd! What is this, 2009? And you text her again, explaining that the fact you never communicate anymore doesn’t mean that you don’t expect her to drop whatever she’s doing and immediately respond to you.
And she texts back, wondering what she has gotten herself into by recruiting you.
And this is going to be fun.