Friday, September 09, 2005

Class reunion.

With the same punctuality and seriousness I paid it when I was there, I found out last night that my 10 year class reunion is tonight. You know you're getting old when you have vivid memories of happenings more than 10 years ago that aren't attributed to flashbacks. When you're 18 you don't remember many things about being 8, but when you're 28, eighteen seems like a movie playing on the back of your eyelids.

My prediction for 84.5% of my classmates: They'll think I'm gay.

Why? First. The only reason I'm not a metrosexual is that I refuse to be considered one. The word just sounds like a gooey softness that offends my transparent attempt at hyper-masculinity. They'll wonder about my hair and whether I prefer humectant shampoos.

They'll wonder where I shop and whether frequency and duration is limited to Saturdays from Noon to 1, the threshold for male heterosexual shopping, unless you've visited Home Depot for something other than "pretty" paint.

Second. I'm not bringing a date, not even a token hair-twirler with a pair of heavily-lifted aftermarket flotation devices. I didn't invite her. It's not that I don't want to "bring sand to the beach" as much as it is my lack of desire to misplace her, only to find her outside carrying on a brisk conversation with a street sign. Bad form.

Besides, if I have to tell another date who accidentally wanders into the men's bathroom because the "illustrations are reeeeaaaaaly confusing" that the white discs in the urinals aren't breath mints, I'm going beat myself over the head with her 4" heel.

Third. They'll want to believe it. What do you say to yourself when you see a attractive woman with a painfully mediocre guy? "Oh, he must have money." What you secretly don't want to believe is that he's got a stellar personality and a Pringles can in his trousers. It's easier for your ego to believe that "stinking" precedes his richness than it is to believe that for the other 12 hours of the day that he isn't making her laugh, he's making her forget her name.

You won't hear from me until Monday. Tonight, reunion. For tomorrow, I'm going to have to figure out how to apologize to a certain hair-twirling someone, especially because it's her birthday. Wait a second, I just thought of something. Should I feel dirty that when I was graduated high school, she was in 6th grade?? Honey, you know I heart you, see you tomorrow. Besides, it's all head trauma.

Have a great weekend everyone.

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