Revenge of the Yearbook

     From my earliest school days, I recall my teacher’s threat whenever any infraction of rules, large or small, was committed: “This will go in your PERMANENT RECORD!” As a young child, I was cowed by the ominous pronouncement, but as I got older and wiser, I began to dismiss the idea of an all-encompassing history as a mere dusty file hidden in the school’s basement, forgotten and harmless.

     But now I understand all too well that I should have paid more attention to the somber prophecy of Mrs. Geisen—who terrified me with her size 12 orthopedic shoes and Far Side hair bun. I am sure even she could not have realized the true portent of her threat and the culmination of the “Permanent Record” scenario. It’s Facebook.

     Early this morning, among the usual updates in my in-box, I found an unnerving post: a horrifying pseudo-professional portrait of myself at age 16, pre-orthodontics, with a then-boyfriend sporting Napoleon Dynamite hair. My own long-forgotten copy of this image was destroyed eons ago, and I don’t even recall the circumstance of its origin. I was mortified to find this reminder of my ugly-duckling, bad-judgment-in-romance self haunting me from the screen of my laptop.

     The first order of business was to get the ghastly likeness off my Facebook page before anyone else could see it. I spent precious minutes Googling the correct incantation to rid myself of the terrible thing, all the while panic-stricken that someone I know now (read: my own children) might stumble upon it and ridicule me mercilessly.

     The source of this embarrassing surprise was a former classmate, whom I had recently befriended on Facebook, after our mothers had visited together in our hometown. I was reluctant to re-establish contact with him, as I’ve spent nearly 30 years distancing myself from the crushing humiliation of high school. Like a victim in the witness protection program, I’ve been hiding behind my married name in a series of populous cities for most of my adult life. But nostalgia got the better of me, and I opened the door to my old life just a crack.

     I soon realized that resurfacing may not have been my best idea. Several other classmates saw my name on his list and sent me friend requests. Most I just ignored. But some had been close enough to require a positive response, though their status updates proved we now share few, if any, common views. So I just hid their posts. Out of sight, out of mind.

     Then these friends began to tag me in old yearbook pictures. Aside from the laughable 80’s hair and fashion, I wasn’t embarrassed enough to protest. At least I was thin in those days. But now that an unwelcome old boyfriend has started digitizing his ancient photo album and sharing it indiscriminately, I’ve had enough. It’s disconcerting to think that someone would even keep a memento like that for so many years, much less feel the need to display it publicly.

     So now I’m back on the lam from my past, and my “Permanent Record”, having “un-friended” the whole lot from the class of ’82. My daughter tells me that they won’t be notified that I’ve cut them off, so I’ve got a good head start. But if you’re reading this and happen to have incriminating photos of me in disco clothes and big hair, please contact me first before you post them for the world, and my teenagers, to see. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.