Ann Marie

I don’t want Ann Marie to see me like this.

It’s true. It’s actually the first thought that came into my mind as I studied my girth in the mirror.

My second thought was, I should write that down. Roll with it. It would become a household joke with my wife. That very day I had sent my RSVP to attend our 50th high school class reunion up in NY. Now, looking at what age has done to my appearance, vanity made a grand entrance. Why Ann Marie came to mind I have no idea.

Like a pebble hitting the windshield, after the first thought strikes, others spread out like spider webs in every direction. Still, if I’m honest, my third thought was along the lines of - how can I lose 20lbs in the next two weeks.

I don’t know why my brain chose Ann Marie. I didn’t know her. She’d been a cheerleader surrounded by popular kids. Straight black hair like Cher. Smoldering eyes. Quiet and demure. Forced by the nature of her appearance to stand out.

She was the first girl I ever danced with at a junior-high dance that my barely teen friends and I went to as a lark. Well, you were 13 once, you know why we went. And when her friend asked my friend to tell me to ask her to dance, though terrified, I had no choice but to join Ann Marie on the gymnasium floor.

It was awkward, that rite of passage. And the next three days in school, she and I met briefly at lunch and held hands and walked together with scarcely a word. Then I’d call her in the afternoon, cause that’s what’s expected when you have a girlfriend, and I’d lamely ask her what she had for lunch. Three days. She was way out of the league for a boy with no chat.

I never spoke to her again. Well, except briefly at the 20^th reunion. To show her I could talk. Though I wasn’t sure she knew who I was.

The 50th was at a large hall in Poughkeepsie. Of our large class of 400 students, maybe 80 people showed up. Most of us struggled to remember each other, and conversations were exceedingly short for the most part.

My wife and I are comfortable in our skin these days, so we weren’t terribly stressed. Outside of swirling vanities that come and go like shad flies, we had no sense of competition or need to prove ourselves. Expectations were justifiably low.

Just to be safe, I checked in to be sure she knew the Ann Marie thing was in fact a joke. I didn’t want her to have any concerns about old girlfriends and rekindled flames. I can be very obtuse of missing social cues. She just laughed.

We were standing at a story board of high school pictures, when Ann Marie walked by. She was luxurious blonde now. Perfect make up and weighed down by serious diamonds. She didn’t look at us. I was struck dumb. I nudged my wife and mouthed, ‘that’s her’. She lit up mirthfully.

I walked the crowd a little more, a few more awkward conversations, before heading back to our table where my wife was now sketching the class of ’74. We were both very content to people-watch from here on out, enjoy a nice catered dinner, and call it done.

Another class cheerleader took a seat next to me and my wife complimented her cute hair. Then asked if she could take a picture of it for her own stylist. Which turned into a humorous, slowly-rotate-your-head video, to which my classmate playfully obliged.

We soon had the table laughing, which was like honey to a bee as others joined our group. Then I saw across the room – Ann Marie spied her friends and was suddenly heading to our table and oh my god she took the seat directly in front of me! I was having dinner with Ann Marie!

She of course didn’t recognize me and chatted with her friends. I was a total fanboy at this point and the star celebrity of the evening was right there. I focused on not gawking. My wife on the other hand was bouncing off her seat. She elbowed me, “Can I tell her? Can I tell her the story?” I laughed, sure, why not. This will be fun.

So, my wife leaned half across the table and caught Ann Marie’s attention and proceeded to tell her in girl-speak the full long version of “I don’t want Ann Marie to see me like this.” Including the first dance in 7^th grade. Ann Marie was naturally surprised. Then, took a long lingering look at me until this recognition came over her, along with a nice healthy blush.

She laughed at both the absurdity of the initial statement, and at the memory of that junior high dance. She spared me any recollection beyond that, except to lean over to my wife and tell her, “He was really cute.”

I willfully ignored her use of the past tense as a common gaffe of a shy person, and we all delighted in the social thaw of the table. I mentioned her career in fashion, which she fortunately took as a complimentary interest, say instead of stalking, and she spoke a little of that.

Then I asked her, “what do you enjoy? What’s your creativity?” She tilted her head a little bewildered and looked at my wife and said, “No one has ever asked me that.” She became a kid again, just kind of melted, and said she had been doing watercolors for a while now.

The night became talk of art and sparks and how to see flowers. The way shadows fold. The seduction of colors and how pigment rides the water in waves. And as we spoke our eyes danced with each other like children as decades seeped away. Except, this time I got it right.