It has been a jam-packed month. Farrah Fawcett died. Michael Jackson died. And my 30-year high school reunion came and went.

I was a Farrah Fawcett fan in my teens. She was the icon of femininity in a post-1960s world that also gave us Nora Ephron and Stevie Nicks and Mary Tyler Moore and Mia Farrow. She had great hair and a knockout body and Lee Majors and perfect teeth, and as long as she didn't appear within 5 million miles of my high school, I adored her.

The same day Farrah Fawcett died, Michael Jackson died. I was sitting on the red sofa in my living room watching the news when a picture of Jackson flashed on the screen with the caption 1958-2009. I was stunned. The international outpouring of shock and grief was moving. In the hours that followed, I too felt personally affected, though I couldn't quite grieve.

Farrah and Michael were the world's losses, not mine, except in the sense that, because we create them, we are all part owners of our celebrities. But my day-to-day life hadn't changed. I wouldn't lay flowers, say a prayer or shed tears. Still, I was sad. It was as if a hole had ripped open in the universe, and important people were falling out two at a time.

As for my 30-year high school reunion, I found out about it NOT because anyone tried to contact me -- you know how difficult it is to find someone on the Internet whose last name hasn't changed and who still lives in the same state. No, I found out through a friend of a friend, who has changed not only her last name but her first name too. THAT person they could find. I joked with my friend that the rejection doesn't end just because you're no longer in high school. We giggled. We said we were glad we'd moved on. That reunions were for people stuck in their past. And then I realized something important: I wanted to go.

But I couldn't go. I had a show in Salina, Kan., and by that I mean I had a date with two days of intense physical labor and a monster thunderstorm that would change the way I thought about rain forever. While in Kansas, I enjoyed the company of a host family who invited me to dinner on two separate nights. The husband was a fabulous cook, and I feasted on gnocchi and herb salad and fist-size hunks of twice-fried croutons. The wife was a sculptor, and their home was filled with art. My friend Mimi was also there. We talked about art shows and animals and relationships and careers.

"Wow," I said after a glass of wine. "And to think I wanted to go to my high school reunion."

Peggy grimaced. "Why?"

Why indeed? High school was nothing but five years of unremitting misery. Of the two friends I still keep up with, neither was going to the reunion. It was being held at an apartment clubhouse, a venue I swore off 10 years ago after dancing on a couch at an office party and blaming my behavior on the hideous furnishings.

On the plus side, I was curious about what my classmates were up to. It's a genuine interest, the heart of which rests in a kind of forgiveness I haven't felt before now. I suppose it's that time of life when you see that the world rips open when we're least expecting it, and whole time periods, if we don't catch them, fall out.

E-mail Dana Shavin at danalise@juno.com