Humorous Essays on Parenting & Family
I haven’t had a hangover this bad since the August I had a newborn, a toddler, and a kindergartner starting school.
There comes a time when you know you’ve gone around the bend and maybe you should admit it.
It’s the first step.
My thirtieth high school reunion was Saturday night, and it was fabulous.
It was, I am compelled to publish, a better turnout than Hubby’s three weeks ago.
Ahem.
Yes, we graduated the same year on the same day at the same time from rival high schools and I am also compelled to explain that his was the one on the wrong side of the tracks, I don’t care what was yelled by a certain young lady wearing face paint and a pompom on her head and, throwing all dignity to the wind, screamed herself silly over a football game that she never bothered learning the rules to.
My brain has only so much space in it.
Football games were for showing up with your girlfriends and letting the other side know how badly they were about to lose. Even if we lost, we had to insist we won. All about that attitude, baby.
My reunion was on point.
I showed up, jumped into a pile of girlfriends, and turned up the volume.
Although the face paint is slightly more mature these days, you will note from my wild curls in the photos that I still have a pompom on my head.
I have an important note for all future reunion organizers:
By the thirtieth reunion, people are flying in from all over the world to attend.
They are fighting jet lag just to see their bestie from second grade.
Please, for the love. Skip the dance floor.
Both reunions had one, and I was one of six girls on the dance floor attempting to lure the crowd into the multi-colored strobe-lit, Van Halen pumping, fog machine mood-enhancing, MTV 80s lovefest.
Perhaps everyone already has this at home. I should’ve asked.
The poor DJ was killing herself trying to earn her paycheck, but the mob would have none of it. She pumped up the volume; she pulled out classics and party tunes; she drove them up against the back wall of the building and out the door as they desperately tried to hear each other talk about little Timmy.
If only the DJ had taken the hint and dropped the beat, literally, so we could hear ourselves think.
I lost my voice and my hearing, which is always a good day-after football game sign. It means you took it seriously. But the headache is from drinking the wine poured under the table by my lawyer girlfriend who smuggled it in in a big fancy purse because open bars are for sissies.
The part where I’m staggering around is from doing the Electric Slide in high heels that should never, under any circumstances, electric or otherwise, slide.
I’m squinting because the daylight in SoCal in August does not take pity on a morning-after face that’s not used to photo-boothing until all hours. I need a nap.
I’m pretty sure I made some new wrinkles and I hope I made some new friends.
It’s hard to tell. Like my face this morning, it’s a bit of a blur.
Hubby knew more people there than I did and seems to have no side effects from partying with his rival high school gang.
I’ll have to fix that.