Reuniting

It's reunion weekend.

Not MY reunion, but my brother Tom's 30th, and I SO wanted to crash it. When I went to Beaverton it was still a three-year high school, so as I was entering my sophomore year, Tom was entering his senior year. Thankfully he had established a pretty good circle of friends, which was integral to my own budding social structure. I can't imagine what would have happened if he hadn't become friends with the guys he did.

Through his connections I had access to all the good parties, and didn't necessarily look like a complete idiot showing up to them with my own friends (I say "necessarily" because generally no senior girl wants a bunch of sophomore girls homing in on all the senior boy talent. Senior girls start realizing their advanced age at 17 and 18 and those dewy faced 15 and 16 year olds were too much of a threat to their intended good times, I guess.). Plus Tom's friends seemed to like me (as a sister, unfortunately for my dewy faced 15 year old heart) so THEY didn't mind if I was there drinking all their beer (and trust me, I did).

Plus I had that score-keeping gig for the varsity baseball team, and seriously, there wasn't an ugly guy on that team (well, maybe one or two). So awkward, inexperienced, fresh-out-of-catholic-school TtheD was almost immediately plunged into the world of popular star athletes and the mean-spirited groupies/girlfriends that came with them. I am pretty sure that's how I developed my hard candy shell. Some of those bitches were ruthless.

I really wanted to crash the reunion tonight because the number of boys I had crushes on in that class is too high to count. I suppose I really just want to relive that life of an innocent naive girl surrounded by confident young bucks drinking beer and wanting to make out, but the truth is none of them are so young anymore and the baggage around that no-host bar is going to be worse than Thanksgiving weekend at PDX. And you can pretty much cut the hair follicle number in half, if not more. But still.. wouldn't it kind of be fun to go back one more time to those days of being fresh and new and ripe for the picking? Only now, in the More Worldly Less Naive suit you've been sporting for the last twenty years? Of course.

I think Tom wouldn't mind me crashing, but the Class of '83 girls to whom I suggested it didn't bite. So I'll run my errands today, maybe lay by the pool, do some laundry and light cleaning, just like any Saturday of my adult life. And who knows, I might need to drive by the Stockpot later in the evening, just in case the path of my errands leads me in that direction. Just to be 15 years old and ripe for the picking for three seconds again.