Like swallowing too much seawater..

Jon and I went to a movie this afternoon (I Love You, Man), and afterward, I bought a bottle of Voss water at Whole Foods and chugged the entire thing, so now I feel like my gut is exploding and I’ve swallowed the Indian Ocean.

Which leads me to what I wanted to say today, this Friday the 17th. Today is my 20th year college reunion, and I really wanted to be there. In fact, since last year, I had planned on going. I had even told my former employer that I was going to take vacation in April 2009 for just that purpose. As we all know now, I no longer HAVE an employer, and the best laid of plans can explode in you face like a bottle of Voss water. Anyway.

I still could have gone. My husband has a few days off from his job, and it’s not that far a drive up to middle Georgia. I hemmed and hawed until the last minute, but my husband ultimately swayed me when he said, “I think things that are in the past should stay in the past.” At first, I thought that was a cynical response, but the more I ruminated, the more I decided we didn’t need to blow our money on the Turnpike fees, gas and lodging. So I am staying home.

The people I was closest to probably won’t be there. And frankly, my only reasons for going were a little shallow — I just wanted to be in the reunion class picture and show that I think I’m still damned cute, and I don’t wear Mom jeans. And I also wanted to show off my sweet honey. So for posterity’s sake, I offer you a then and now portrait, so you can be the judge of how time has treated moi.

Yeah, the Nancy Wilson hair gives away the year - 1987. The color is not natural, as I haven't seen my true color since I was 19.

Yeah, the Nancy Wilson hair gives away the year - 1987. The color is not natural, as I haven't seen my true color since I was 19.


My current Facebook profile shot. I was trying to get some modelling shots of the tiny hats.

My current Facebook profile shot. I was trying to get some modelling shots of the tiny hats.


There you have it. You be the judge, all five of you. My weight has gone up and down over the years, but it’s levelled off, and as long as it doesn’t get above a personal Mendoza line I’ve set, I’m okay. I’m still wearing size 8 jeans, so I have that going for me, which is nice.

But I guess I have to ask myself: What is it that I remember or want to remember from college life?

I remember my two boyfriends from those four years. Both guitar players in bands. One, through the magic of the Interwebs, I know is married with two kids and a heart bypass survivor. And even though I never want to see him again (because, through the magic of the Interwebs, I did during 2000, and my cat shit in his luggage, so you see how well THAT went), I feel good that he’s found true love and happiness. Because frankly, I never loved him.

The other, well, I have no idea what ether he’s floating around in, but again, I hope it’s a good one. Because I did love him, even though it was a scary and toxic love. And I wonder if he still has those Corona beer bottles he saved from when the Reid brothers from The Jesus and Mary Chain bought him a six pack in the Circle K. True story, yo.

I remember working for a professor who I really admired, because despite all the temptation that other profs succumbed to, he never slept with his female students, even though one in particular threw herself at him and frankly, he was in love with her. He told her he wouldn’t touch her until she graduated or he was no longer employed — and he kept his word. Bitch was awfully jealous of me, though, since I had close proximity. I helped him find another job, and he let me mimeograph hundreds of papers on the old-fashioned crank machines. Yes, I sniffed, and copiously. And he gave me a passing grade even though I should have failed his class — I like to think we had an “understanding.” Oh, and he let me grade his papers and give people I hated bad grades. Yes, the truth comes out!

All the profs I really cared about are dead now. Heck, one even died my sophomore year. He donated all his show tune albums to the college library, where I used to pass out on the couch in the attic and the Japanese exchange students would laugh and point until they finally woke me up at closing time. My senior year, I found the collection in the basement, sitting there collecting dust. I decided he would have wanted me to have some, so thanks Dr. B, I still have Ain’t Misbehavin. You know how I feel about Nell Carter.

I guess that’s it. There were good times and there were weird times. I witnessed a murder one time walking after midnight downtown. The son of a famous R and B star (deceased) and member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame asked me to particapte in a threesome. I declined. Things rolled like that for me. They say you can’t go back, and if I did, I’d be faking the funk with a bunch of moms and Junior League members. In Mom jeans. I would stand out like a sore thumb, like I always did.

I’m not ashamed of who I am. I’m not embarrased that I’m unemployed — it’s happened to a lot of people, not just me. I don’t know what my next step is — am I going to go back to school? Settle for a wage slave job? Keep making tiny hats and watching Godard movies?

I don’t know tonight. I think that’s all I feel like remembering tonight.

Peace out, lead farmers.

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One comment

  1. Bonnie · April 20, 2009

    Mom jeans are bad news, especially when combined with any kind of funk bringing.

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