For many of you, the day after Thanksgiving requires you to put on your best Gap sport coat, head out to the local beef-and-beer drink your way through a high school reunion. Readers can empathize. Heed their warnings.
I graduated in '97. Skipped my five year and was dragged to my tenth, where I had a surprisingly great time. It certainly wasn't dull.
First was the party itself. It was kind of amusing that my rather well-to-do Catholic school had our reunion in the party room of a Comfort Inn. The planning committee did a decent job- most importantly, it was an OPEN BAR. Cheap liquor and light beer, but when some pack of girls is asking you to do a lemon drop with them or you're on your third (fifth...whatever) gin and tonic, does it really matter?
I sat at a table with a few people I was friends with. Along with my then-girlfriend, I was next to my best friend and his wife. A friend of ours from the lunch table senior year joined us. Then a guy I sat next to in jazz band and his wife. Another guy we were friendly with sat down...with his life partner. No one batted an eye. Maybe we'd grown up.
After dinner, there were the usual awkward conversations, attempts at dancing, group photos. It's amazing how cliques still cling to each other. I was surprised at the number of people who didn't recognize or even remember me, one of whom I used to do homework with on the phone. Being a natural degenerate, I gravitated to the comfort of the bar rail for a good portion of the night, letting people come to me. The drinks flowing led to some interesting conversations, like the one I had with the son of the Cleveland Indians beat writer. One of my fondest HS memories was when he turned around and punched me in history class during our junior year. He was actually a pretty nice guy.
Not to mention the alcohol-induced benefits of buttons coming undone, cleavage coming out, shirts riding up, and other wardrobe malfunctions. The wife of the guy I was in band with was kind of a flirt, and oh yes, did she have a tramp stamp. At one point in the evening, she was openly hitting on my best friend, right in front of his wife. (They were both too sauced to notice, more on this later.) Two minutes later, she was talking to me and actually scratching at my chest.
The evening wore past 11, and my best friend and his wife were absolutely blotto. At one point they were dancing on the parquet…to no music. They were staying in the hotel upstairs, so I tried to herd them out of the party and into the elevator. Not too tough. The hallway to their room was another story. I fireman-carried each of them 50 feet at a time; at one point the wife was on all fours trying to wedge her head into the ice machine. This took me about 20 minutes, and I came downstairs to a very pissed-off girlfriend.
Her: Where the hell have you been? I want to go home!
Me: Um, we've got a problem.
She would be even more unhappy when we had to help get the two of them to bed, as they were puking their guts out by the time we got back upstairs. It took over two years for my best friend to apologize.
We finally got back just as the reunion was letting out. It felt like things were just getting interesting. The final capper to the night happened as we walked through the lobby. A guy and his girl (or a hooker) had finished up a very obvious and very quick booty call, and were trying to see if they could get out of there with a reduced rate —Via Juancho
Note: Photo above is not from said reunion. No, it's from Googling "high school reunion drunk." Close enough.