Aselin

Recently I attended my 20th high school reunion. I was really looking forward to the evening. The most influential chunk of my formative years were spent in high school, and I’m not sure I ever fully recovered from the experience. Returning to spend an evening with many of these people promised to be cathartic.

Carefully I chose what I would wear. The invitations were casual, the location was casual so I had a little trouble deciding what to wear. In the movies, reunions are quite dressy and formal. There’s usually a band and bubbles and people are crowned things. I was named “most likely to succeed”... would they be checking on me? Would there be new awards?

Do I go dressy and try and leave them with a classy impression? Casual, which is definitely more me, and be my comfortable self? Resort casual? Little black dress? Curly? Straight? Slit up the side? Slit up the back? Heels? Flats? Pantyhose? Aaauuugh! It was like high school all over again.

Finally, I took a deep breath and chose an outfit. I ran it by a friend, it got approval. She affirmed that it was “nothing that would stand out, but I looked “fine”.

“Fine” is usually what I’m shooting for. I figure it’s better than many other adjectives that have been used to describe me, so I was happy with ‘fine.’

All gussied up in my bundle of ‘fine’ my friend and I set off for the evening. After a quick check with my mother, who pointed out that my outfit selection wasn’t that good - again, like high school. We were off.

Now, for a little Big Picture clarification. In my real life, I NEVER worry about what I look like. I eventually grew up and left all those adolescent insecurities behind me. As long as I don’t have a booger hanging out of my nose or toilet paper trailing behind me, I’m pretty much OK. I worked for many years as a model, and after being both highly paid and viciously excoriated I realized that in reality, I was, in fact, just ‘fine,’ and that fine was a great thing.

Back to my story...

Motoring down the road in my dad’s convertible jaguar, in my ‘fine’ outfit, I pulled up to the event. And yes, a nice car does build one’s confidence. I walked in to the event and was thoroughly enjoying myself. It was everything I could have hoped for: reconnecting with people I enjoyed, acting like grown ups with people who were less than genial to me back in the day, and getting lots of compliments on how great I looked. I found an emotional closure that made the evening all worth it.

Then, the drinking started to take effect. Not my drinking mind you - I was, as always, the Designated Driver for the evening. No, everyone else’s drinking. It was getting sloppy, slurry, and downright pointless, but I had agreed to be the D.D., so I was stuck.

Out on the patio, I was having a nice conversation with Lisa who had moved to Bolivia to become a missionary in the Amazon. We were suddenly, rudely interrupted by laughing, screaming and the slinging of a bra.

Lisa and I just looked at the bra on the patio and shrugged. While I understand to a man, an unattended bra is like a flame to a moth, it was the kind of thing that other girls don’t really go investigate.

Then, right past our nice Bible thumpin’ conversation, as according to Lisa I had not yet been ‘saved’, a hooting pack of partygoers sprints past us. Normally this would have been a rather benign interruption, I know you’re thinking “who cares that her conversation was interrupted?”

Well, inside the posse herding by our little revival, was the owner of the bra. As well as four or five other stark naked streakers flailing arms and other unnamed body parts all over the Soule Park Golf Course.





















I’m pretty sure they were breaking the dress code. They certainly didn’t have golf shoes on.

At this point I looked at Lisa and commented that apparently all my hard work choosing my outfit for the evening was rather pointless since it was highly unlikely that anyone would remember my outfit after this scene. She nodded, and was too offended to continue. She excused herself and left for the evening.

I on the other hand, was appalled. So appalled I had to lean over the railing to see who it was. Of course, they were all people I knew. One of them had occupied a good chunk of my high school crush time. I had even asked him on a date. Yep, I know how to pick ‘em. Clearly he married well since his wife was the owner of the bra, and she is currently a celebrated pole dance artist. She was toned, I can attest to that.

As I drove home that evening I chuckled that ‘fine’ just doesn’t get remembered. After witnessing the display that would get remembered for the evening, I was fine with that too.