I get up off the couch and wearily go change. Freshly set sheitel, stylish necklace, new dress with the belt I’d debated buying considering my changing figure, but no need to worry about that anymore, ha. Then another coat of concealer to mask the bags beneath my eyes.

On my drive over to the reunion, I turn up the music. Benny Friedman’s upbeat Tashiru is pulsing around me, yet the rhythm in my head is still failure, failure, failure, just as it has been all day.

I take a deep breath before pushing open the café’s glass door, and whisper up a quick request for the emotional energy to play what I’ve privately dubbed The Social Game.

Game on.

Hugs and air-kisses all around, lots of, “You look fantastic, it’s sooo good to see you.”

And the truth is, it is good to see everyone.

We catch up on each other’s lives. Aliza is a successful interior decorator, and she shows us magazine-worthy shots of the homes she’s decorated. Chava is a beloved mechaneches with only beautiful stories to share. We discuss our adorable children, our fantastic mishloach manos ideas, and compare how far along we are in our Pesach cleaning.

There are no stories of Aliza’s botched plans or Chava’s difficult classes. Everyone’s kids sound like perfect angels, and nobody dares admit they haven’t even started Pesach cleaning.

I smile cheerily throughout the evening, aiming to exude that aura of contentment with the best of ’em. For a moment I wonder if perhaps I’m the only one playing the game; maybe everyone really is as secure, happy, and confident as they sound.

But then I catch myself. I’m a big girl, I know a thing or two about real life, and nothing and nobody is perfect. Yet here in this brightly lit café, with clinking glasses, soft laughter, and delicious smells surrounding us, real life seems a faraway thing.

On the drive home, I leave the music off, and in the dark quiet, I think.

I think of all the other women there tonight who will also leave the bright smiles and perfumed air of confidence behind in that charming little café, and return home to their own worries, insecurities, and challenges.

I think about what the evening could have been like if we wouldn’t have felt compelled to follow the rules of the game, hadn’t made sure those masks didn’t slip, because there’s shame in exposing a sliver of the vulnerable humans we are, in acknowledging our less-than-perfect lives and less-than-perfect selves.

And I think — if there ever was the right time to just be authentic, without worry of judgment, shouldn’t it have been there, among the comfort and familiarity of childhood friends?

I pull into the driveway and close my eyes, the light and laughter of the evening dancing beneath my lids. Then I open them and head toward my house, to face my real and perfectly imperfect life.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 741)