So much of ... panic

If I was a tranquiliser kinda-guy, I would be popping a few right now. But, alas, I'm not. So I'll just allow the shudders of panic to flow through me as I pretend that all is well in ramblerland.

I have reason for the panic. I'm not a panic-attack kinda-guy - and don't get random attacks of spontaneous terror for things like not being able to find a parking bay. Panic is only induced by the really serious stuff. Like having flu symptoms after being in a Malaria area. Well, let me be honest, that creates concern rather than panic.

Having malaria symptoms means having to have blood tests, which means a needle piercing through my tender skin and flesh. that induces mild terror.

Waiting to find out if I have parasites partying in my liver. Frenzied fear.

But I have more than this to warrant my hair falling out en masse. And believe me, I'm desperately trying to hold onto every strand (on my head, that is).

Saturday 29 May is the reason.

When 80 boys who matriculated with me will reunite to see how much more successful the one is than the other, to brag about the children they have, and lament the loss of their looks and/or hair.

Saturday 29 May is my 20-year high-school reunion.

And I'm going.

I've spent the last week asking myself why I'm putting myself through this. There's every reason not to go. I speak to three people from my high-school 20 years since we were forced to spend our week days together. And one of those is a teacher. The other two are friends that I only recently reunited with.

So why the hell do I want to spend an evening (in suit and tie.... again) chatting about my life. Now let me put you in the picture here...

I went to a boy's school. One of the oldest in the country with a wonderful sporting history. For those of you who know me, the word 'sporting' immediately explained why I, the drama kid who loved choir practice and the library at break, feel terror at the thought of going back. Let me put you in the picture even further... I have an ex-Springbok rugby player who matriculated with me and the ex-Springbok rugby coach was my housemaster (I was in boarding school) for five years.

I played rugby once. I ran away from the ball every time someone threw it to me.

I played cricket but throw like a girl, so whenever the ball came near me I would run and pick it up and throw underhand towards the sticks that were put in the ground. It would land about two metres in front of me so I would have to run and fetch it and repeat the ordeal until I was at the sticks. By this stage the people with the bats were back in the change rooms telling people about the turd trying to throw.

I tried waterpolo but had to hang onto the side of the pool whenever the umpire wasn't looking because it was all too exhausting for me.

So now, 20 years down the line, I'm off to remember the good ol' days.

And remember that these boys are pretty much the reason why I feel like I don't fit in at the best of times. Why I'm very aware that men have the potential to hurt you if they perceive you as different. And that being a gay man is distinctly different - even if it's merely suspected.

That's why I will go back. To reclaim my lost power. To stand tall and say that I deserve to be in that room as much as they do. That I too am married, just to a man. But that I am no different to any boy who sat in those classrooms.

I just hope like hell they don't decide to play a quick game on the top fields...