Class Reunion

I recently attended a 50th class reunion. I declined to attend my 10-, 20-, or 30-year reunions because I feared that there would be the same high school cliques, the same arrogant scholars who would drone on and on about how they left university to become self-made millionaires, and of course the same mocking football players who would again tie me up in a laundry bag of unwashed game socks and jockstraps. I did attend my first reunion for year 40 and found, to my surprise that my fears were quite unfounded.

Driving into the parking lot of the venue, I immediately realized that there were far fewer cars in the parking lot than at the 40th and a fraction of those that must have been at the first three reunions. It may have been that a number of classmates were deceased, or it was merely because many had lost their licenses and had arrived by Uber.

Finding a nice parking spot next to a Mercedes convertible I began to get that queasy feeling in my stomach that there would be a self-made millionaire in the group that I would have to make conversation with. Walking through the parking lot to the venue, I waved at two seniors headed in the same direction. Possibly invited school staff I thought. Entering the building, I was shocked. Everyone there appeared to be senior citizens. I stepped back outside and looked around for a shuttle bus from assisted living housing, but there was none in the lot.

I must have the wrong venue, I thought. There is no one here who looks my age. But walking through the entrance again, there was a sandwich board sign announcing, Welcome Class of 72!

Walking quickly past well-dressed groups of chatting senior citizens, I entered the men’s restroom and stood in front of the mirror.

The blood rushed from my head. I felt dizzy and nauseous. I reached for the sink to support myself.

“Holy for the love of Pete, when did this happen!” I yelled. “I am a senior citizen!”

Someone from one of the toilet stalls responded, “I know, right?”

I left the men’s room and slowly worked my way around the outside of the dining room so I wouldn’t be seen. Sort of like the time I showed up dressed for a Mardi Gras party only to find that it was a Latino Quinceañera party for 15-year-old girls coming of age.

How could my nearsighted mind’s eye have deceived me so badly? Me, thinking I was still 35 years old. No wonder the boys that I lead in the church high school group call me grandpa and the girls call me, Mr. Creepy. I should have realized when I started receiving my Social Security checks and was paying monthly Medicare Part B premiums that I was on the back side of life.

I wondered why, when I was in line to ride the zip lines in Mexico, the operator pulled me aside and asked, “Are you sure your heart is strong enough for this?”

As I listened to the 55-year-old top ten hits being played in the background, I chatted with people whose faces began to change into the 18-year-olds I remembered. Most were looking at their watches at 9:45. Some mentioned an early Pickleball game they had scheduled at 10:00 the next morning as they waved goodbye. Eventually, the mosquitoes began to get vicious. They seemed to be attacking anyone not slathered in Bengay and since I was covered in CBD cream, they were swarming me to get high. It was time to leave.

On my way back to my car I wondered how full the parking lot would be for the 60th reunion. All in all, it was a fun class reunion. There were no cliques at tables, and no one was bragging about their hard-earned millions. Before reaching my car, I did notice one commotion though. Four of the class of 72 football players had a struggling body in a laundry bag of gym socks and jockstraps.

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