is an Inquirer staff writer.

By your mid-50s, you really shouldn't care what people you haven't seen or heard from since you wore kneesocks think of you.

But high school trauma has the half-life of uranium. So it was crucial to prepare for my husband's 40th reunion.

In some ways, the pressure was worse than if it were my own. We went to the same high school, although I'm younger by a whole year. Which, when you're 17, is practically, like, a generation.

Older, then, was a good thing. The seniors had status, they always seemed cooler, the "Purple Haze" to our "Red Rubber Ball." His girlfriend was demoralizingly pretty and popular. His buddies were dangerously confident and broke rules and my heart raced to pass them in the hall. And his class had Brad. I loved Brad. For a few weeks, he loved me, too. Or so he said.

At the reunion, there was a chance he'd show.

Here's the unwritten rule: Anyone who has (1) royally screwed up, or (2) become famous enough to impress your children, does not attend. Serial divorces, a minimum five years out of rehab, 50 extra pounds, rigor mortis face-lift - you go. Attempted murder, involuntary celibacy, going from National Merit Scholar to living in a double-wide - you don't.

Sane people don't willingly present themselves to a jury of their fanged peers unless they can make a good case for themselves, or have such a good case that their time is too valuable. "You already know me from late night TV show."

You'll talk about them anyway.

My husband was blase. In high school, he was a star. In life, he hasn't done half bad either. He had nothing to prove; he just wanted to see old friends.

For me, it was more complicated. Despite four years as a varsity cheerleader, my social status had been shakier. At the reunion, if anyone was kind enough to speak to me, I figured I could hold my own with the career and kids. And hey, I did marry the senior class president.

We all know what really matters, though. So two weeks before, I tried on three outfits and let my daughters judge.

"The skirt's good, but not the top."

"Oh God, no."

"I like the boots, but the sweater's got to go."

The morning of, I got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen.

"Black? In New York? Really?" my 17-year-old said.

Ironic, coming from a girl who recently went to school in sheepskin ankle boots and a secondhand flowered mini skirt and (my) jean jacket. But she's surviving adolescence much better than I did. And she was right. Wearing black in New York is trite, like quoting Kahlil Gibran in a mash note. It's cliched, like planning to play Pachelbel's Canon at your wedding. (A wedding, incidentally, that will never happen because your ex-boyfriend won't ever forgive you for that time he told you to get naked and you laughed, thinking he was joking.) It's . . . never mind.

I changed. You can interpret that on several levels, but I also mean it literally.