As I wrote in this space a few months ago (see a rundown of my travails here), I have been debating the wisdom (?) of attending my 41st high school reunion. Yes, that’s right. The 41st. As in one year beyond 40, when one would naturally expect a reunion would take place. Personally, I think it’s rather unique holding a reunion in an odd-numbered year…everyone else holds reunions in the even-numbered ones, probably because even numbers are a whole lot easier to remember than odd numbers, since—and I was somewhat surprised by this— cheerleaders, class presidents, and football jocks age just as quickly as we average, anonymous under-achievers do (really…you can look it up.) So, by having it on year forty-one, we can all prove to the world—and each other—that we remain fleet of mind, when in truth it just took an extra year to get organized.
Actually, that’s not strictly true. The graduating class of ‘71 planned this reunion—their 40th (see? even number!)—and they did it in a most timely fashion. Then, for reasons most likely known to everyone but me, they graciously opened it up to classes ‘69 through ‘72, which means that, now that I think about it, there will be even more people there I don’t know. The upside is that I may not remember any of it—there will be liquor, after all. And an even better upside is maybe no one will remember any of it. I do, however, have grand plans to keep you all intimately informed…I just might have to make something up.
So, the decision has been made. I’m off the fence. I’ve taken a stand. I’ve bought a non-refundable plane ticket. The only things left to do between now and next Friday are (a) get my nails done, and (b) lose ten pounds.
I should have started a year earlier.