It would be great to see my high school pals but I also dreaded our reunion. Forty-nine years earlier, these pals and I snickered behind our books at reunions of other funny-looking codgers. Now we were codgers.
Not wishing to be snicker material myself, I began well in advance to disguise my codgerism. Gasps of admiration would mark my sweeping entrance: “Wow! She hasn’t aged a day!” When I failed to diet away my bulges, I frosted them over with a glitzy wardrobe. My pricey dye job and makeover were designed to transform me into the dinner’s dessert sensation.
Alas, fate foiled my glamour plans! Upon arrival at the airport, my luggage fell from the overhead bin. The blow shattered one lens of my bifocals and broke the frame at the bridge. I had not thought to bring an extra pair of eyeglasses.
By desperation and by feel I managed to crazy-glue the bridge to the multiple lens shards before the reunion, but the eyeglasses were hopelessly caked with layers of glue and most of my finger pads. My spectacles were a spectacle — an ironic twist to my intended spectacular appearance!
So instead of a sweeping entrance into the hall that night, mine was a groping one. Through the haze of my nearly-opaque lens, I searched for familiar faces among many heads. Gone were the full mops of Elvis hair with sideburns or the girls’ pony tails which might have tweaked recognition of these fleshy faces. Hair had receded or had gone missing altogether on most of them Furthermore, these heads topped roly-poly bodies whose bottoms oozed over seats. Could these puffy pink pupae-people be the swollen versions of my formerly svelt classmates?
Puzzled staring began. They stared at me. I stared back. Identities were solved by those who could see well enough to read my nametag and introduce themselves. Only then did familiar forms metamorphose from pudge. Squeals of delight accompanied recognitions, which erupted like spot fires among all the returnees..
Folks had trouble identifying me, they said while playfully jabbing me in the ribs, “… because you aren’t thin anymore! Ha! Ha!” Although I too had apparently turned into a pupa, my own appearance and that of others was forgotten in the excitement and joy and catching-up. It was good to see each other .
“Remember when?” discussions broke out all over the room.
Show-and-tell photos were passed—black and whites from high school days and coloured pictures of grandchildren. In sharing our joys and tragedies and careers and accomplishments of the past forty-nine years, we classmates learned that each had found a useful niche in this world.
Someone asked, “If you didn’t know how old you are, how old would you be?” That night we were all 17 again. And if we hadn’t been so pooped at the close of things, we might have cruised the Burger Barn and drag-raced down Main Street for old time’s sake. www.raventricks.com
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