The last time we met here in my column, I relayed to you the
important and extremely professional planning taking place for our
upcoming high school reunion. Said planning was in the competent
hands of our new reunion committee comprised of seven of my former
classmates and me, none of whom has tangible event planning
experience except I think one of the guys organized a beer-drinking
bash in the mountains one time that had actual police officers
present, although they’d not been formally invited.
The last time we met here in my column, I relayed to you the important and extremely professional planning taking place for our upcoming high school reunion. Said planning was in the competent hands of our new reunion committee comprised of seven of my former classmates and me, none of whom has tangible event planning experience except I think one of the guys organized a beer-drinking bash in the mountains one time that had actual police officers present, although they’d not been formally invited.
Planning aside, the most critical thing about your class reunion is that you make every effort possible not to permanently embarrass yourself. This is harder than it sounds. I, for example, have the ability to embarrass myself by simply walking into a room, which is pretty much what happened at my class reunion five years ago.
My discomfiture wasn’t due to any of those obvious, high-level embarrassing episodes such as walking about with the back of your skirt caught in the waistband of your pantyhose. Oh, no. I was way more original than that. And the crisis actually began before I’d even left the house.
Now every woman knows that going to a high school reunion means doing everything humanly possible to look good short of obtaining a body swap with Julia Roberts. And part of looking good includes your mode of transportation to the event.
I’d just flown in from California, so my brother picked me up at the airport in my late father’s archaic boat of an automobile. But no worries: Toni, my best friend from high school, was driving us to the reunion in her hot little sports car. I mean, it sure can’t hurt to have any old stray boyfriends see you pulling up in an expensive sports car, right?
Unfortunately, Toni called the day of the reunion to say her snazzy car had broken a nail or some such and was going to be in the repair shop. So our vehicular choices for the evening were (a) my late father’s big boat-mobile or (b) Toni’s late father’s old Jeep, which was actually manufactured before the Civil War, I believe, and is an exciting vehicle to ride in provided you enjoy the view of the highway whizzing by beneath your feet because several of the floorboards are missing.
We eventually chose my father’s big old boat-mobile, figuring we’d get in and out of the venue as rapidly and unobtrusively as possible, hoping to avoid gawks from other reunion-goers wondering why on earth we were motoring about in a massive old father-mobile.
We arrived without incident, but my courage was in serious need of a boost. After downing a strong, brain-numbing beverage at the bar, I set forth to share the joy. Spotting a friendly-looking group at a nearby table, I ambled over. Making the rounds of hugs and “You look fantastic’s,” I encountered a young lady who was obviously not a member of our graduating class. She looked about 15.
Still glowing from my potent cocktail, I gushed enthusiastically, “Hi! Aren’t you cute?! Are you here with your parents?” “No, I’m married to Randy,” the young lady replied, nodding toward one of the fellows I’d graduated with, now a doctor in our hometown. Well. That had gone smashingly, especially since Mr. Doctor’s ex-wife, also in our graduating class, was now at the bar pounding down shots to fortify herself for the evening.
Fortunately, the rest of the night proceeded without incident, and things were wrapping up. I just needed to retrieve Daddy’s boat-mobile so we could make a fast escape. Except when I pulled the car around there were several dozen alumni milling around outside. What were they watching … oh, dear God. Blocking our exit was the biggest, most ostentatious limousine I’d seen in my life. Climbing leisurely into the limo was the reunion committee. Toni and I, inside my father’s big old boat-car, were trapped behind it. I looked helplessly at the crowd over the tractor tire-sized steering wheel.
Throwing the car into reverse, I backed up, then did a major u-turn. Maybe we could limit our humiliation by exiting at the other end of the parking lot. Yeah … no. Dead end. Nothing to do but perform another u-turn, bringing us right back to the rear of the limo and what now seemed like thousands of alumni watching us idle noisily away while waiting for the limo to make its languorously grand departure.
Toni and I looked at each other. And this is why we’re best friends. “Some things just never change,” we both said at the exact same time.
And now I’m a member of the new committee. Will I make it through the next reunion without a major faux pas? You can never tell. But I’ll let you know. Maybe.
