My Inner 7th Grader Takes a Beating.

I loved my awesome green party dress. Loved, loved, LOVED it. I loved the color, the fit, the fact that I found it in a thrift shop for $15, and the way Kev's mom fixed it to look absolutely perfect on me.  My glorious shoulder freckles looked magnificent. 

I really was looking forward to knockin 'em dead at my reunion.  I wasn't a bit nervous in the car on the drive to fancypants downtown Clayton, because I knew at least one person slated to attend had gained more weight since high school than I have. There was a deliciously morbid comfort in that.

My only fear - more of a concern than a fear, really - was that given the guest list, it might be a little bit boring. And when I get bored, I get creative. And when I'm drunk and bored, my kind of creativity might frighten some people.  It might delight those who know the post-high-school Penny Karma I have since become, but I didn't drink at all until college, so my high school pals have witnessed plenty of Creative Sarah, but not Drunk Sarah. 

And I was reasonably sure that the uberconservative George Dubya High School alumni weren't ready for Creative Drunk Penny.

Out of the 85 people in my graduating class, only about 30 were signed up to attend. Of the 30, I only cared about 5 or 6. I couldn't care less what Kimmey Fiero, Stereotypical New Money Stinkin Rich Gorgeous Barbie Doll Cheerleader Snotrag is faring in her illustrious career as a Trophy Wife.  In fairness, she was never really outright viscious to me exactly, but that's only because she didn't want to squander her precious Cheerleader Spirit energy on a peasant like myself.

We ran into Kimmey Fiero in the elevator. 

She is one of only a handful of people with whom I can't even bluff my way through a fake conversation full of nothing more than small talk and pleasantries. I don't care what she's done over the last twenty years, and I know she doesn't give two shits about me either.

She did that sappy obligatory "Oh, hiiiiiiiiii!  How great to seeeeeeeee you! You look fan-taaaaaa-stic!" bullshit. I was smirking through clenched teeth, choking on the words I wanted to say, which were "fuck off, you emaciated twat," or something like that.

We joked uncomfortably about how long the elevator was taking to get to the roof. The ding of the elevator brought an audible collective sigh of relief, and she pranced off to look for her uppercrust kinfolk, who apparently had better things to do that night. Kimmey left after less than an hour because nobody cool was there.

The very instant R and I stepped out of the elevator, Julie Wigglesworth yelled from across the room, "HEY, THERE'S MY LITTLE CEASAR'S BUDDY!!!" in a pathetically overt attempt to humiliate me in front of my husband.  See my last post if you don't know what I'm talking about. 

She was hoping to out me, I'm sure.  It didn't work.  I laughed, said, "Oh, Julie, this is my husband R. You met my friend Kev a couple of weeks ago (turning to R) - Kev and I ran into her at Little Ceasar's when we were picking up dinner for the kids (turning back to Julie) - Kev and his wife are so great, in fact, they're watching our kids for us right now!"

Derailed that shit, didn't I?

As the night went on, I learned some interesting things. One of my former classmates ran into another fellow former classmate at, of all unlikely places, a strip club several years ago. The mother of a friend of mine died, which made me extremely sad to hear.  FOUR of my friends had each popped out two more kids since I'd last seen them.  I've popped out two more since the ten-year too, come to think of it.

I drank. A lot.

I offered (read: threatened) to whip my boobs out as part of a fundraiser for the Alumni Association.

People told me how hilarious my Facebook updates are, and I snickered to myself, because those people have no idea that I'm waaaay funnier without the Facebook Filter in place.

I got defriended on Facebook 24 hours after the reunion.

It was a nice night, really.  My effervescent personality sparkled brilliantly.  I was really delighted to be able to introduce my husband to people who have known me longer than he has. R, I would like to add, looked dapper and amazing, and he got to know several of my friends, which was really cool. 






And the next day (yesterday), the pics appeared.

I look hideous in the pics everyone is posting. I looked horrible in the pics at the ten-year too. I look gigantically pregnant in the pic that wound up in the Alumni Newsletter. I was mortified by how underdressed I was for the ten-year, so I was going to overcompensate this time.  I'd been stewing about it for a decade.

Major, MAJOR FAIL. 

The invite called for "Smart Casual" attire. What the fuck does that even mean???  People wore jeans. That pissed me off, a little. I glammed it up and wound up with pictures of my backfat posted for the world to see. Look.




Oh, and notice my buddy Newman (who made sexually suggestive remarks to me every single day for six years, back in the days before I would have been as tickled by it as I would be today) making out with his adorable wife on the right side of the pic.

I wish I didn't look so hideous in the pics, because that's what the people who weren't there are going to see and use to draw their own conclusion about how well I've aged. Of course I know that there are some folks who would be ripping on me no matter what I wore, which is why I chose to wear a dress that made me happy.  And I was happy... until yesterday's rude awakening.

I really thought I looked awesome. People told me I looked spectacular, and I believed them.  And now here I was faced with the reality - and relative permanence - of these wretched, unflattering photographs floating about the internet.  I really wanted to blow my classmates away, and instead, I made a complete ass of myself. 

Here I was having a great time, thinking I looked bloody freakin amazing, and the whole time I had no idea I looked so Huttish in my shiny green dress.  I am totally embarrassed, and there's nothing I can do about it now.

To their credit, R and Kev and Rip and my beloved loves have all reminded me of my beauty.  R told me he thought I looked stunning and he was proud to be with me, but it's almost like hearing it from your dad. You know he means it, but you also know he would never tell you that you were anything less than beautiful.  I was too deep in a self-loathing funk to listen.

I feel disgusting, enormous, amorphous, gross, and above all, incredibly foolish.  I want to throw up.  I want to take a scalding hot shower and scrub my skin with steel wool.  I want to crawl into bed with a box of Oreos and a bottle of Schnapps.

I know I'm taking it far too seriously.  I know I'm totally overreacting.  I know I'm making a big deal out of something that's really not a big deal.  I know I'll get over it.  But right now, I feel like everybody else was in on a big hilarious joke...

and that joke was me.