There are few experiences more tedious for a cynical post-capitalist like myself than making small talk with strangers in the big city down the hill (Sydney-Ed). I”m at a disadvantage from the start, with my complete lack of interest in real estate, renovations and um” what else do they talk about?
The occasion for last Saturday”s evening of torture was my 20 year school reunion. My all girls, Catholic high school reunion. I wish I”d invited loadedog along to record some of it; the audio alone was priceless, consisting of a moderately high-pitched babble interspersed with the occasional protracted shriek as some girlish face was glimpsed beneath 20 years of living.
Certainly there were people I was pleased to see, and those few made the trip worthwhile. But I was surprised to find that I barely remembered most of them. Even with printed name tags bearing a schooldays photo, I found I drew a complete blank on many women. Perhaps this is because I was such a solid dag at school that for the most part I was completely insignificant to most of the various cliques. Or could it be the intervening years of substance abuse. Who can say?
I was on the periphery of one conversation between two women who had a reputation for wildness while at school. They were exchanging stories about violent exes and AVO’s. I contributed my own story about my ex”s propensity for buying bulk produce and how I was going to get an Apprehended Vegetable Order against him, but they didn”t laugh. Same old story.
The tall girls seemed taller, the plain girls plainer, the quiet ones quieter, the dykes dykier. One woman who I”d started kindergarten with had become a TV producer, her work including Big Brother. I considered for a moment telling her just what I think of that sort of execrable programming, but I thought better of it. So I gave her a slapping instead.
It was slightly unnerving, but on the whole I was gratified to find that I could no longer be fussed what any of them thought of me.
Long Live the Dag!