For years, people assumed I would plan my high school reunion. I always acted surprised at the idea. I hadn’t been class president; it wasn’t my job. But since 2008, I had been president of almost every club I touched, so this jump in logic was not without merit.

Nevertheless, I maintained it wasn’t my responsibility. “I’m not even sure I’ll attend the damned thing,” I’d say. While I did not hate high school, I felt particularly ambivalent about four years of growth spurts and 6 am alarms and did not want to commit to an unnecessary weekend in my hometown. But after the factual class president defriended everyone on Facebook six years ago, the assumption grew. “Who else is going to plan it?” a friend asked aloud.