We stressed over it for months (wait – you were stressing along with me, right?), and it’s finally done. My 20-year class reunion has come and gone. Did I have the wrinkle-free baby face of my high school years? No. But somebody said I finally look old enough to drive a car, so I’ll take that as a compliment.
Did all the guys who didn’t ask me to prom (that would be all of them) fall down and start crying at their missed opportunity? No.* (Although they could have been doing it in the mens room – I didn’t check in there.)
Did my best friends change their minds and go with me? No. (Skanks.)
Did anyone else wear sequins to the “casual chic” event? Um, no. But I got a lot of compliments on my dress, so that should count for something. See for yourself.
I know, I know, my photographer sucks. But he is low paid and I can abuse him, so I keep him around.
Favorite reunion moment: Upon my stating that I was sober, one of my oldest and dearest friends responding, “Since when?? You sure weren’t sober at the beginning of the night!” Um, yeah. That actually happened.
Worst moment: Stating on FaceBook that I hated I’d missed seeing my friend Steven, and them having him reply, “You did see me. You hugged me.” Yikes. Did I mention I am nearly blind in dim light since my Lasik surgery? (And no damn way was I going to wear my driving glasses that night.) I know you’re seriously questioning whether I fell off the wagon, but I assure you I was sober. Which makes this next statistic so sad…
Number of people who saw my panties: Countless, when I bent over to pick up these graduation hats and then realized I was out in front of the group picture and basically flashed everyone. The good news? I went to high school with all of them, so they’ve all seen my panties before from one klutzy move or another. (Thanks for nothing, 10 grueling years of ballet!)
Number of old boyfriends guilt-tripped: Sadly, only one. He was the only guy I dated who showed up (I think. I told you I couldn’t see in there). But I made the best of it and gave him a full 30 minutes of lecturing. And I got an apology, which just goes to show you that carrying around a grudge for 20-something years can be quite rewarding in the end. Only a couple dozen more to hunt down and berate – let’s hope some come to the 30-year!
Number of people who offered to pay for some of my years of therapy: One, and he apologized for calling me “Toby” my entire senior year, a nickname he gave me after we saw a hermaphrodite named Toby on “Sally Jesse Raphael” one night. (Now if only those people who called me “Stick” would offer to reimburse me as well…)
Did I get the closure I was seeking? I don’t know. I don’t know what I was looking for. But there was a lot of love in that room, and nobody seemed to hate me as I had feared, so I’m going to put it in the “W” column.
*Special thanks to my friend Brian, who is a year younger than I and took me to my prom after all the loser senior boys asked other girls. (Although I would be really pissed if I found out he wrote that off his taxes as a charitable donation.)
