Not fat, but "Prosperous"

To be honest, I've been worried lately that I was already experiencing a drought of sorts. Apart from the olfactory incidents in my junior college classroom, I didn't have a whole lot I felt compelled to write about. Sure, I could force it, but like so many other things in life, forcing it results in a poor product, or in other contexts, jail time--where a whole lot more "forcing it" tends to take place, I hear.

Then I checked my email on Wednesday, and to my delight, found one of my dearest friends had been kind enough to send me a link to photos taken at my recent, 10 year high school reunion. New worlds of possibility suddenly laid themselves bare before my eyes. I felt like a cheetah on the Serengeti who had accidentally stumbled upon the wounded, retarded, and elderly section of the gazelle herd; yes, my friends, there was bounty to be had here. So much, in fact, that my frail mortal mind could not adequately process the brutal stimuli strewn before me as I clicked through picture after picture of this delightful little get-together. Indeed, I slipped into a comatose state, and only now, days later, have I regained enough consciousness to share my thoughts.

First impression? Overwhelming relief that I did not go. Now I know how passengers who missed a flight must feel when, driving home from the airport in irritation, they hear that their plane detonated over the Pacific; or how the promiscuous Lothario feels when learning that a former conquest has gonorrhea but he, despite his utter and persistent disregard for protection, escaped with his junk (Mr. Peeps) untarnished. Such was the feeling of serene calm that swept over me, so much so that I immediately slaughtered a fatted calf and burned fragrant herbs in praise of my merciful God.

Interestingly, the other sensation that most forcibly warred with my relief as I perused these crime-scene snapshots was a deep-seated, almost bewildering confusion. The title on the web page claimed that this was my high school and my graduating class, and every six to ten pictures did contain someone I vaguely remembered, but the vast majority of these pictures were inhabited by souls I, as far as I could tell, had never seen before in my entire life. For many of you, this may seem unremarkable, but bear in mind that my graduating class clocked in at somewhere around 200 people. At one time, I knew the names of every single one of these kids, but whatever the years had done to them, it had erased the once rigid contours of their profile to leave a fleshy, dead-eyed caricature in its place. Let me pause a moment to emphasize that first adjective a bit: indeed, were there a machine bolted to the gymnasium floor that night that could pare away the excess pounds that had accumulated over the past decade, they could have molded themselves at least another fifteen people to enjoy the festivities.

I could go on for quite some time, so I'll cut this short. Despite what my previous paragraphs might suggest, I hold no persistent distaste for my high school or my former peers; indeed, there were a number of people I saw in the pictures who I really did wish I was still in contact with, and another few who are still close to me. I don't mean to malign these people, or the rest of the gang in attendance. I suppose it's just that I don't have a whole lot to say to them, nor they to me, I imagine. Come on--I don't even remember their names. Showing up that night would be tantamount to saying, "I never cared enough to remember you after graduation, but I do care enough now to squint at your name tag and feign enthusiasm about your life for as short a period of time as possible." I respect them enough to save them the implied condescension. Though, I suppose, not enough to simply not condescend in the first place. God, I'm a prick. Maybe I did them a favor not showing up.