what’s your damage, Heather?

My theory is that you really can’t get drunk at your high school reunion because everywhere you look, there’s a buzzkill. And I don’t even mean that in a bad way, for the most part… it’s just that a reunion is kind of like work disguised as a night out. Finally, after hours, everyone is so cheek-kissed, one-arm-hugged, and “oh, hi!”ed out that when you’re done, you’re done. I got dressed, pre-boozed, arrived, left, analyzed, and fell asleep with two of my best childhood friends. It wasn’t very stressful; for the most part my class consisted of a bunch of maladjusted rich kid hippies, with the occasional lacrosse player thrown in. Several people asked if I was still writing; two randomly asked if I had a blog. Along the way we ran into a group of people who graduated from our same school and were going to their 15 year reunion at the same bar… how delightful to know that I’ll continue to be dragged back down memory lane every five years. I reconnected with the person I most wanted to see which was really worth the price of admission (which was $35, by the way). And no, no, NO DAMN IT ALL, I didn’t find out if the infamous ex officially became a woman. Sigh.

So it was fun to spend a night in 1995, but better to be back to a world where I have a savings account, no curfew, and, as I learned tonight, a CVS photo guy who filed my pictures under “blond hair and glasses” instead of my name. I wasn’t wearing glasses when I picked them up and I don’t actually have blond hair, but a completely different employee somehow figured out they were mine. Sometimes it’s not even worth asking, you know?

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