I previously theorized what I would wear to my Ten Year High School Reunion, here.
When picturing the event, I had always imagined more of a Romy and Michelle kindof thing as opposed to being married, a Mom and a professional. I really didn’t think I’d be dressing a recently made post baby body either. Since I decided to procreate anyway, I had to adjust my awesome slick all black boob dress plan to something a little less cleavagey. This actualy isn’t for the reason you think. It’s not because I thought my husband or child would say, “Woah, Mom. You’re ass looks huge.” Nope. Nothing like that. Actually, it’s because my boobs, large D’s prior to baby are still in the F range. They are currently uncontrollable.
And then there was the venue. Our 5-Year Reunion had been held in the clubhouse of a shitty apartment complex down the street from our old school. At the time I kindof understood since we were all mostly just graduating from college and pretty poor. But for our 10 Year Reunion I thought for sure we’d class it up a bit. Instead, the invitation read “Brewsky’s, 8 pm.” Brewsky’s is a local sports bar where dirty old men go to buy drinks for underage girls “playing pool” in the back. Dirty.
I forced my husband to attend and we got there about 35 minutes after it started. We really had no reason to be late except that I had worked the night before and hadn’t gotten any sleep. I may as well have showed up hammered for as lucid as I was.
My husband and I both looked hot. I was rocking the long dark hair in bouncy curls, skinny dark jeans that were essentially more stretch than jean and a cobalt blue racerback tank that downplayed how giant my boobs had gotten. Ofcourse I broke our my favorite black wedges (the closest I’ve come to heels since my vagina ripped open and my kid climbed out), my classiest black Michael Kors purse and two of my favorite pieces of jewelry my husband ever gave me: pearl studded earrings and my giant pink engagement ring.
This is the closest similar look I could come up with:
My husband was wearing a crazy sharp black button down with dark jeans and black leather loafers. He’s been out of the military for over a year and though he loves to flaunt his new ability to wear facial hair any given day of the week, he always wears his hair high and tight. We looked like a successful, happy, good looking young couple. I don’t know why neither of us thought to take a picture since it was the first time we had really gone out in almost a year. (We hit up a different party later and got in around 2am.)
We marched into the back party room of the bar and…stopped. About 40 people looked back at us. I recognized maybe a quarter of them. And they mostly looked fat and very under dressed. I mean, I realize we’re in a shit hole bar but damn…do your makeup. And what about your hair? A ponytail? Did you just leave the gym? Do you have a small child at home and work full time and run an online business and have a husband who works out of town and only got TWO FUCKING HOURS OF SLEEP before coming tonight? No? Oh that’s me.
And I still managed to look hot.
We immediately blew off the (ex)popular crowd sitting at the head of the long pieced together table and went directly to sit near the people I still cared to talk to. I introduced my husband and could feel people staring at us. Clearly we should have adjusted our Night Out standards for this shitty little party.
Eventually, I made the rounds and forced conversation with people I didn’t actually care about or really remember. My husband did his duty as the spouse and chatted with other spouses who didn’t care about the goings on of our class.
At one point I was gestured over by an ex cheerleader to glance at a couple pages in some yearbook she had held on to. She pointed at a picture as she sat next to the burnt out class stoner wearing the same shitty clothes he wore in high school. She asked me, “You were in the Yearbook club, right?” I thought about it. Was I? I vaguely remembered working on layouts and writing witty blurbs so I figured that sounded right. “Yeah. I think so.” The stoner kid looked at me and laughed, “Loser!”
Now, normally I would punch a bitch in the face for saying something like that. Been there. Done that. Several times.
But instead of showing him all the cool moves I had learned to control unhappy rapists and guys on wet trying to eat their girlfriends’ skin off, I did something completely different.
I looked at him. Took in his same baked expression and thread bare Polo from high school and…laughed.
“Yup,” I said, “I’m the loser.”
I then walked away and felt the silence at my back.
It’s by far my favorite high school memory.