20 years and counting

I have been expecting the call. I have been trying to ignore it's coming – mainly because I know what it means. It means pain. It means stress. It means I have to look and be my best. It means that I will be measured up and judged…

It's my class reunion.

So, it's been 20 years since I graduated in 1988. And I get the dreaded phone call. It's in 3 weeks. Holy sh** - "did you say 3 weeks?" My first thought – when the fu** did I get so old? My next thought – sh**, I have to make sure that I am in decent shape for this thing. Cue the treadmill. Cue the elliptical. That's where the pain comes from. My ass is going to be sore until the day this thing takes place. The stress is praying I can fit in to something resembling cute, trendy and slimming – does anyone make something that slims 30 pounds? Do they have a cure for ebola virus and how can I isolate it to my mid-section?

Anyway, I love and hate these things. I love seeing some of the people with whom I would love to catch up. I hate seeing the people that seem to fall in to the same cliques they did years ago. Seriously. It's been 20 years. But it happens – which was painfully obvious at the 10-year mark.

I can hear the conversation now:
Classmate – "So Lenny, what are you doing?" Me – "Well, I'm between jobs."
Classmate – "So, how's your family?" Me – "Kids are good. Let's just stop there."

This should be fun. And the worst part? The high school crush called to tell me about the weekend's events.

I need a convertible. I need a good story. And I need a beer.