By Stephanie Abbajay

Whether it’s high school or college, everyone wants to put his or her best face forward for their reunion. And while it would be nice to arrive successful and in style, like software billionaire Artie Ziff from the Simpsons, who arrives at their Springfield High reunion in a helicopter to show Marge what she could have had, reality is usually far less glamorous. For many of us, just getting there is enough, never mind trying to impress your classmates.

My twentieth college reunion was last weekend, and Dave and I drove out to Gambier, Ohio, the home of Kenyon College. I had a terrific time, even though I didn’t arrive in style. Yes, I showed up in a Mercedes, but it’s 27-years old, we bought it on eBay, and it was covered in bird poop and paw prints from our two cats. The air conditioning also broke two hours into our eight-hour car ride, so Dave and I were sweaty, rumpled and grumpy when we hit the campus. I was also covered in sheepskin lint from the seat covers, so I had that going for me, too.

I didn’t impress anyone with my looks either, what with being covered in sheep fuzz and having failed to lose the 20 pounds I have gained since college. I also look my age, having forgone the Botox injections, so popular with my college peers (male and female). I certainly didn’t impress anyone with my career or wealth, either. When I told people I was a columnist for a local paper, they were impressed until they found out I only made twenty bucks a pop. Then they thought I was an idiot. That paltry sum – even at twice a month -- doesn’t exactly lend itself to luxury living. It doesn’t even cover a Saturday night at the Dew Drop.

I was pleased to see all my classmates, though, and, truth be told, very pleased to see faces that were older and more lined than mine, hair that was grayer than mine, bodies that were bigger and lumpier than mine and children that were as loud as mine. Reunions at Kenyon College are three-day events. The first day is like the icing on a cake. That’s when everyone gives the thin, sugarcoated version of their lives. Day two, when more alcohol is consumed and people relax a bit, is when the truth comes out. Day three is recovery – everyone is too hung over and bloated from drinking draft beer to care about anything but getting back home to sleep in a bed that is bigger than a twin and isn’t covered in plastic (we have to sleep in the dorms, which is not nearly as much fun as it sounds).

Some of my friends are doing phenomenally well. One of my classmates just endowed a chair in economics and gave $10 million to the college. He’s 41. I’m 41. I gave $100. Others are doing less well, worrying and living month to month. Most of us are somewhere in the middle, but we are all, one way or another, the same, and that is edifying. We all have children, spouses, families, in-laws, houses and jobs to deal with, and when you get past the veneer of the first day, you realize that no one is really better off than anyone else (though the guy who donated the $10 million can jet off to his house in the Hamptons when the going gets tough. That takes the edge off.). In reality, all of our lives, give or take a few million, are basically the same.

Especially when it comes to children. Some of our kids go to public schools and some go to the toniest prep schools you can imagine, where the tuition can exceed the average household income. But after awhile, we find we are all on the same playing field, and that all of our kids are the same. They are all a pain in the butt. They have ADHD, ADD or POD. They were held back a year or are in therapy or counseling or are just normal crazy kids. No matter how much money you have or how big your house is, we are all in the same boat as parents, with the same concerns, heartache, stress and problems.

In the end, I was most impressed with the classmates who were genuinely happy with their lives, those who were doing what they loved. That turned out to be the political reporter from St. Petersburg, the organic farmers from Vermont (wrinkled from the sun), the guy who sold espresso machines in Seattle, the high school English teacher on Staten Island (who refuses to dye her hair), and the New Yorker who runs a non-profit that helps send inner-city kids to college. The millionaire had a very serious life and was as tense as a guitar string all weekend, and spent much of it on his Blackberry. In the end, it doesn’t matter how much money you have, what you look like, or how you arrived so much as who you still are or, better yet, who you’ve become.

Stephanie Abbajay lives in Dow, where she is a writer and the marketing director for Stine Woodworking.

June 13, 2007