There is nothing so appalling as receiving your 10 year high school reunion announcement. Sadly, I went to high school with a bunch of ultra-organized, over achieving perky people who simply can’t wait to get together and reminisce about how much fun we all pretended to have, so they’ve begun alerting us that we should begin preparing for this reunion, due to occur in a year and a half.
I don’t know exactly how to prepare for this dreaded event, save to stop eating and start trying to become famous. I’ll also begin interviewing male models to escort me through the cafeteria, hoping to develop a report over the next few months that will allow for us to appear madly in love.
In high school, I’d fantasize about showing up at my 10 year reunion with an Oscar and Hugh Grant. I’d lug my Oscar from table to table, as Hugh would brush women out of his path, attempting to bring me wine while maintaining distant yet charming conversations with everyone I ever loathed. Former classmates would blatantly kiss my ass, as Hugh would throw an arm around me and say things like, “My darling Beth was correct after all. It seems that you, my dear, are indeed a skank.”
We’d whisper in the corner, appearing annoyed yet accommodating when well wishers would interrupt, asking to touch my statuette or run their fingers through Hugh’s hair. We’d stay for nearly half an hour, just enough time for everyone to notice and become wildly jealous, and then we’d hop into Hugh’s Aston Martin and peel away. Some brown nosing wench would chase after us, screaming, “Beth! Beth! You forgot your Oscar!”
“Oh, keep it!” I’d scream back. “I’ll get more…”