Facebook, that beautiful timesuck, seems to have developed a new application. It's called "Find Your High School Friends & Freak Them Out."
This has been happening a lot recently. The most recent high school alum to find me was - whew! - someone I actually liked.
More often, it's an unfamiliar name along with a message that offers no clues - "Hey there! What have you been up to??"
All this has led me to unearth The Yearbook.
It'd been a long time since I'd cracked this open, and I'd forgotten about the hair. I dare say, my high school companions may have had the Best Bangs of All Time.
I'm from Kansas, you see. And this is how we roll:
I'd like to claim that I was too cool for this trend, but the evidence shows otherwise:
Bonus points if you can name that grape-scented hair product in the corner.
DOUBLE bonus if you still own a pair of white shorts.
Anyway, the best part of unearthing The Yearbook has been re-reading the old signatures. From one classmate:
Good luck at Gay-U [KU], you pinko-commie baby-killin' fag-lovin' tree-huggin' Hillary worshippin' media mackin' flower-powerin' band wagon jumpin' U2 lovin' feminazi left wing LIBERAL!!! Call me this summer. We'll PARTY!!!Did she have my number, or what?
The boy I was crazy about - the one who took me to Homecoming and then dumped my ass - brought my yearbook home one night in order to write something special. The next morning at school he delivered this:
You can see why I adored him.
The best, though, are the banalities. While I seem to remember a lot of hanging out in the Taco Bell parking lot, everyone else says we partied hard and had a total blast (!!!).
It must be true.