What Kind Of Class Is This
UH OH, HERE IT COMES AGAIN. It seems like it was just last week or maybe five years ago. I’m starting to get ticklers about another High School Class Reunion. Aren’t these people satisfied that I show up once every fifty years?
I do admit that I sort of skipped over the first forty nine years worth of reunions, but I had a good excuse: I didn’t want to go. I broke down when it came to number fifty and I admit that it was a pleasure seeing some of the kids (now Geezers) that I went through grade school with. The thing is that I don’t remember them from High School all that well. Either I was in a fog or they were. They looked a lot different than I remembered them from 1952-1960.
This upcoming reunion should be subtitled “Look Who Is Still Breathing.” After 55 years the herd has undergone some serious culling. Taking a group photo should be much easier. Maybe they should hire one of those artists who do courtroom sketches so we could have an “Artist’s Rendition” instead. That wouldn’t show so many wrinkles and liver spots as a hi-def digital photograph might.
This reunion is scheduled for sometime in June. I don’t know where it will be held, but I’ll wager it will be in a place with a minimum of stairs and a maximum of those Electric Heart Resuscitation Paddle gizmos. I remember that at the last reunion a number of people tried to get up and dance. If they try that again those Paddles are going to get a workout. I don’t want to have the Reunion turn into a Wake. The food is never as good at Memorials.
That Fiftieth Reunion was held at the local “Country Club.” I had never been there before even though I lived nearby for 19 years. I was not “Country Club” material. My family didn’t have “Blue Blood” – we had “Green Stamps.” I had to ask directions on how to find the place. I hope this year they stage this rodeo at some place I can find without Google Maps and a bloodhound. Maybe the local Wendy’s is available?
One of the high points of the last reunion, at least among the collection of Doofi (Doofus, plural Doofi) at our table, was trying to determine who had undergone the most plastic surgery. There were several contenders. The winner, by a long shot, and by two tucks and a lift was a gal that I actually remembered from school, but the woman standing in front of me bore not the slightest resemblance to her. My guess is that she married the Surgeon and got the medical equivalent of Frequent Flier Discounts. It was eerie.
Will I go to this reunion or will I stay home? That remains to be seen. What will the weather be like? Where will I have to go? How much is this going to cost me? Will I be expected to recognize anyone who I haven’t seen since Third Period Spanish class?
Too many questions.