How (not) to get ready for your class reunion

A friend and I rockin' our senior prom.

I spent last weekend reliving high school. Yup, even though I could’ve sworn we just turned 30, apparently it’s been 20 years since we graduated.

As you may recall, I spent last week getting ready for my reunion by growing some kind of abscess on my neck and splashing coffee into my eye. Yeah, you might say the stars all aligned for me. Or not.

So let’s rewind to Friday evening. We were running late (so unlike us!) in leaving home and heading to our hometown for a pre-reunion party. We packed the van, and as we did, a glass bottle fell out and broke in the driveway. (Doesn’t everyone have empty bottles just rolling around in their vehicle? I thought so.) Being the great wife and mom I am, I thought I would just clean up that glass before someone cut themselves on it.

You can probably guess what happened next. I picked up a shard in what I thought was a careful manner but apparently wasn’t because next thing I knew blood was spurting out of my fingertip. Husband wasn’t as much sympathetic as he was amazed at my klutzitude as he helped guide me and my dripping finger to the house and the bathroom. After getting the bleeding under control, I was able to assess the situation. Did I mention I was wearing a white shirt?

Yeah… I told Husband I would just wear it anyway, but he didn’t think that would be too cool, so we made a pit stop at Target. As we were getting out of the van, I noticed the blood spray on the side of the van. Just like CSI! It would’ve been kind of cool if people weren’t looking at us like we had just dumped a body somewhere. Part of that might have been because I noticed that I also had blood spray all down my legs.

Nothing a little spit bath in the parking lot couldn’t take care of.

So I met friends I hadn’t seen in five years with a throbbing red-rimmed scab on my neck and my finger wrapped in blood-stained band-aids.

And later in the evening when I burned my finger on the pulled pork crockpot, I thought for sure Husband was going to sell me to the highest bidder. Which at that point wouldn’t have taken much more than pocket change.

But I managed to have fun while masking my pain with ibuprofen and a Sam Adams (Disclaimer: This is not something I recommend or endorse). That is, until we went outside…

My friend who was hosting the party planned a fun group game for us, a scavenger hunt of sorts through her neighborhood. Which would’ve been a bit more fun if it weren’t 98 degrees with 99% humidity. The second we walked outside, our hair instantly wilted and our pits dripped. After about a half hour, I decided to just give up. By that time, my hair was wet and my face was the color of the blood trail left in my driveway. I went inside into the air-conditioned house that I swore had to be heaven on earth. And I watched my classmates continue to be good sports while I sat inside, a sweaty party pooper.

Now, in my defense, I should probably back up and tell you what happened to me the night before. (Yes, there’s another story!) I decided the yard needed to be mowed before our neighbors started egging our house, so I took it upon myself to push-mow the yard. And even though it was 8:00 at night, it was still about 350 degrees and the air was THICK. Being the idiot I am, I didn’t want to quit mowing until I was done, even if I felt like I was going to literally pass out or throw up, or pass out while throwing up. Finally the mower died and I couldn’t take it another minute. I barked somewhat incoherently at Boy #1 to finish the strip I’d left in the front yard and stumbled through the front door, where I proceeded to drop to the ground and rub my cheeks against the cold wood floor. Afraid I may have pushed my luck a BIT too far, I had to swallow my pride and let Husband help me get my sweaty, grass-covered disgusting self into an ice bath. Finally, I was able to stand up so I could shower and head to bed, where my head continued to pound for most of the night. Not smart, I know. But other people can handle the heat, so I just assumed I could too. I should’ve known better.

So can you blame me for ducking out of the game early and leaving my teammates to pick up my slack? (Sorry, Mark and Dru…)

The next day was the big reunion, and I was ready. I had shopped til I dropped at TJ Maxx and spent a whole $13 on a shirt that I was sure would make me look awesome!

Apparently I was either drunk or suffering from heat stroke when I tried it on in the store. Because it didn’t quite look the same when I put together my outfit in the hotel room Saturday afternoon.

All I saw when I put it on was cleavage. And not pretty-skinny-girl cleavage. It was fat-and-old cleavage, and it did not tell the story I wanted it to tell.

You think I’m exaggerating? Usually Husband thinks so too. But this time? I asked him, and his reply was “Do you have something else to wear?”

This is not what you ask a woman 5 minutes after she was supposed to leave for her 20-year reunion. Especially when she does NOT have something else to wear in the hotel room except a blood-stained white T-shirt and some wrinkled pajama pants.

So then I got the whole, “It’s fine; it’s not that bad,” which is not helpful whatsoever. My night was not starting out as it had in my daydreams, when I was 30 pounds lighter and wasn’t wielding swollen lymph nodes from an infected neck wound. And had cleavage to be proud of and not the kind that makes you want to burn your eyes.

And speaking of burnt eyes . . .

After having a great time after overcoming my self-consciousness with the help of time, a mullet wig, and one very smooth gin and tonic, we packed the van on Sunday to head back home. My mother-in-law had just gooped pink udder and teat cream left over from Husband’s great-grandpa’s vet practice (I kid you not) on my neck (which, incidentally, I’m now calling the “magic cream” because it totally healed my neck in about 3 hours) . . . and my father-in-law was trying to fix our windshield wipers, which had just wigged out one day and now get all tangled up when we try to use them. That’s when he asked Husband, “Could you run the windshield washer mode once?”

Could one person be at the wrong place at the right time this often?

Instead of coffee in my eye, this time it was windshield washer fluid. I just happened to be standing exactly where the stream that overshot the windshield would hit me square in the eye.

Really, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried. And why would I try?

And if you’re wondering, my eyes have recovered, my finger has healed, and my neck wound has dried up like a good little wound.

And I’m now reviewing everyone’s reunion photos on Facebook and wondering what in the world I saw in that shirt I wore. I look like a football player. With old-lady boobs. And the denim skirt and flat flip-flops? Didn’t do much for the legs either. I’m not even going to go into the double chin… I always think I know how I’m supposed to turn my head to avoid the double chin in photos, but it’s always the exact opposite of what I’m actually supposed to do, so it adds about 25 pounds to my face. Now that’s sexy.

At this rate, I cannot wait until my 25-year reunion. Bring it on!

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