Yearbooks Should Be Buried in a Deep, Deep Hole

I spent 90 bucks on my daughter’s high school yearbook, yet when it finally arrived a couple weeks ago I was banned from reading it. “Hey, you can’t read what my friends write,” my daughter said as she ripped the book from my hands.

Well, darn. There is nothing more fascinating then clever quips from 15-year-olds. “You’re so sweet! Text me. H.A.G.S!”

Riveting.

In the few seconds I spent flipping through the pages I was amazed by how big the darn things had gotten. Mostly because of all the parent congratulatory ads they have now - “Brittany, your Mom and Dad clearly love you more than your friends’ parents because we spent $250.00 on this full-page ad.” The rest of the bulk was from the endless photos of sports teams, clubs, and the yearbook staff itself, of course.

“They had the biggest section in my yearbook too,” I told my daughters.

“Wait, you had yearbooks way back then?” my eldest asked.

“Yes, we had yearbooks,” I said through clinched teeth, “but instead of photos, our likenesses were chiseled on tablets and our names were read by the town crier.”

“Really?”

Yes ...

(Want to read more? This essay and many others are in my new book, Is That The Shirt You're Wearing? published by Tidal Press, and available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble)

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