So I understand that individual experiences might vary, but I’m gonna give you my take on our twenty year, high-school reunion:
For starters, there were some dudes I was hoping to see there that couldn’t make it. You dudes know who you dudes are. Anyway, knowing they weren’t going to be there, I was kind of disappointed. I told Cindy, “Yeah, you know, maybe we won’t hang around that long. Maybe we’ll pick up the kids early and go home and watch a movie or something.”
Then BAM! Seven hours passed in a heartbeat.
I don’t know about anybody else, but I think that our reunion could’ve lasted seventy hours and none of would have even felt remotely “caught up”. Something kind of weird happened at the Chamber Bar this last Saturday night, and I don’t think I was the only one who noticed. Because I had a bunch of conversations that went something like this:
“Isn’t this weird?”
“Yeah – weird.”
“It’s great though.”
So later on, I really had to get that sucker figured out (‘later on’ being later that night while I was laying awake until 5 AM because of the thirty-two cups of coffee I drank at the reunion (but Cindy had fun)). Point is: I think I finally figured out what we were trying to express.
Bottom line: we’re pushing forty. Pushing it hard. Most of us have jobs and kids and mortgages, and for the past twenty years, these things have occupied our full attention. Meanwhile, the things we cared about for the first twenty years of our lives have almost completely faded. Like the people we shared those years with – the kids we grew up with. So on Saturday night, even though we were all strangers in a sense, from different towns and states and different walks of life, just for that one night, we kind of magically reconnected with that first half of our lives. Leprechauns and faeries sprinkled glittery sparkles all through the air, and we all de-aged twenty years. We became those same high-schoolers again, far removed from our jobs and kids and mortgages, just together in one place, enjoying one another’s company like a big, sweet mug of gut-warming hot chocolate.
Which is a goofy and gay way of saying it, but that’s kind of what it was like – hot chocolate. You couldn’t call it pickle juice or anything because I never really noticed anybody sitting shunned in the corner. So yeah… goofy or not, hopefully… it was hot chocolate all around.
And that’s my take.
Any other 89’s out there want to add anything?