1. Don’t go.
OR
2. Lose 50 pounds, win the lottery, and publish my bestselling, yet unwritten, book.
Option number 2 was a grand dismal failure as I actually gained 3 pounds (who knew that cheesies, wine and ice cream were not diet foods?), maxed out at least one credit card, and can’t seem to write even a grocery list with the kids around this summer.
But in a moment of complete delusion, perhaps due to a junk food-induced haze, I bought tickets for my husband and me. And as the date closes in, circling like a hungry shark, I have to make a decision.
I wasn’t popular in high school.
I’ll wait while you pick your jaw up off the floor.
In fact most of those years were extremely painful for me since I was bullied by some mean girls, and when I did attempt to make new friends those girls would scare them off. So I have been watching the list carefully to see if any of them are planning on attending. I haven’t seen their names, so I can only assume that their parole officer hasn’t approved the outing. But the bad news is that none of the friends that I did eventually get close with are on the list either. The large majority of people attending are the popular crowd, and if they didn’t know who I was then, I am sure they won’t recognize the new expanded and wrinkly version of me.
Which leads me to my brilliant plan! I can hire actors to go in my place, get all the dirt on everyone, and report back. Meanwhile I get to stay in my yoga pants and hot-fudge stained T-shirt. Who’s the loser now??? Oh yeah. Still me.
But as a writer (stop snickering) I feel an obligation to go, even just for material. For my therapist.