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MyCool_Stuff
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The 10-year Reunion CommunionAuthor: Rob Krider, Sun Times My wife's 10-year high school reunion was approaching, or maybe a more appropriate term would be "looming." I was as enthused about my wife's reunion as I would be about having a toenail removed with a pair of rusty pliers. My wife was pretty excited about it. She had been shopping and dieting for her 10th reunion for about nine years. As the final days approached, it was all my wife could talk about. Which outfit made her look thin, but not too skinny? Which outfit made her look sexy, but not too slutty? Which outfit made her look young, without trying too hard to look like she was trying to look young? We didn't go to the same high school, so I understood that I would know a total of one person at the reunion, and that was my wife, whom I love. Of course, I get to see her every night, and I didn't see a need to pay $75 for an undercooked chicken dinner just to hang out with her. But it wasn't about me, it was about my wife, who apparently has fantastic memories of her high school years, so I set the weekend aside as a total loss so we could go to the reunion. Since the event was important to my wife, I went as far as to buy a new tie and get my hair cut. I drew the line at tweezing my eyebrows, though. She was going to have to introduce me to her high school friends with one eyebrow. My father-in-law came over to watch the kids so we could go to the party. He has never been a man of many words, but when he does speak he always shares a strange sense of blue-collar wisdom. "So you're going to a reunion, eh?" "Yeah, that's why you're here. To watch the kids." "Well ... it won't be the worst night of your life, but it won't be the most fun you've ever had either." On the drive to the reunion, my wife started to give me the rules of the evening. I wasn't allowed to talk with a girl named Jenny Simpson, because apparently Jenny beat my wife out of the junior-year student body president election, and there were still some bitter feelings. Then my wife began to go over "our story." What our story was, I didn't know. Maybe boy meets girl, they have kids, boy works his fingers to the bone, girl shops, boy dies of a heart attack at a young age, girl takes life insurance and enjoys life with another boy. Apparently, that wasn't our story. She had scripted a fairy tale that I had never heard of before, but was apparently a main character in. In "our story," we met at the coast and fell in love amongst the beach and the dolphins, then we married in a passionate frenzy and lived our lives happily ever after while staying thin and not growing old. Since she was making up stories, I was planning on telling the first person that I met at the reunion that I was unemployed and had just gotten out of jail. We arrived at the event, and before I could even get through the front door, my wife was hugging some tall handsome guy. Who was this dude? I didn't remember him in the script. Then he hugged me. The reunion had been officially underway for a total of three minutes, but this guy smelled so much like alcohol I wondered if he had been drinking ever since he graduated. I gave my wife the look-you know, the kind of look that says, "Who in the hell is this guy, and how well does he know you?" My wife tried to introduce me to a few different people, but she had a hard time recalling who was who. One introduction went something like this. "This is Molly. She's in the local sheriff's department." "I'm not in the sheriff's department. I'm a hairdresser." "Oh, but you were in the sheriff's before, right?" "No, I work at Supercuts." "Yeah, but you did something with the court system or something like that." "No, I just do hair." Obviously, my wife had the wrong person, but she wouldn't drop it, so I tried to save her. "Well, it was my pleasure meeting you anyway. Maybe you can do my hair sometime?" "Do you live in Florida?" "No." "Because I do hair in Florida. We flew out here just for the reunion." I asked my wife to stop introducing me to people. She either had no idea who they were, or they were ex-boyfriends. I didn't really care to stand around and talk about the good old days with my wife's incredibly tall ex-boyfriends. After dinner was served and the small talk subsided, the music started. My wife wanted to dance. Men are required to dance only one time in their lives, and that is the first dance at their wedding. After that, men are not required by any international law to dance ever again. But it was my wife's reunion, and she wanted to, so I danced. Well, I mean I stood on the dance floor with a group of people, nodded my head up and down, and shifted my weight from one foot to another, counting the seconds until I could get out of there. When did they start making songs eight minutes long? When the night was over, I apologized to my wife. I was sorry she had to bring an average-height, mono-browed, beer-bellied white guy with no rhythm to her reunion and introduce him as her husband. She gave me a reassuring hug and made me feel better about myself by saying that on her 20th reunion, I could stay home. Sounds like a deal to me. m Rob skipped his reunion because he didn't feel like being reminded of the time he threw up in the cafeteria. Sloppy Joes, anyone? Copyright Rob Krider. 1-1-05. | |