Didn’t wake up at the crack of dawn as I had planned.  The reunion party at the wine cellar went later than I anticipated.  I did squeeze in a ride though, up and down and up and down the Key, the old haunts flying by.  Afterward I hit a new place for breakfast, run by and old British couple, and the omelet is fantastic.  And today is finally a bright and sunny Sarasota day, the kind I’m used to, so later in the afternoon I decide to get a run in on the beach.  Each morning on my bike ride I see people running out on the road and I’m thinking what the hell, you got a gorgeous beach about 500 feet west and you’re running on the road?  Not me brother, give me that powder sand, crystal water, and a blazing sun. 

After my run I head over to the daiquiri bar for another steak fajita to get me through ‘til dinner.  I look inside and since it’s Saturday afternoon the place is packed with scantily dressed twenty-somethings, male and female, and the vibe is too spring break for my tastes consarnit! so I just head next door to the 7-11, yes, 7-11, and score some fruit and water to tide me over. 

Seven o’clock soon rolls around and it’s time for the second go-around at the reunion, a combo cocktail hour, dinner, and then dancing if enough alcohol has been consumed.  For some reason I’m less nervous tonight.  The digs consist of a ballroom at the same restaurant, couple of bars and about fifteen round dinner tables, like a wedding.  I walk in and head immediately to the bar so I can have a drink to keep my hands busy as a meander around trying to find a group to infiltrate.  I see my old neighbor Rob and his wife.  Rob lived in my neighborhood, and I remember sneaking out of the house one night senior year to go to a party over at his house, and when I came back and tried the front door, it was locked, meaning the old man knew I was gone, meaning I knew I was a goner.  I hang out and b.s. with Rob and some other folks for awhile, and then I see Tara and Cindy come in.  I tap Tara on the shoulder and playfully remind her that she promised I could sit at her table so as not to be a pariah and  total capital “L” loser.  She laughs and she and I and Cindy talk for awhile as other people come in and the place starts filling up.

I run into other folks I haven’t seen for years and am not even sure they recognize me, but they do.  Cameras come out and flashes start to pop around the hall as everyone tries to memorialize the evening. Before we know it dinner is being served and we haven’t even grabbed a table, but Tara and Cindy and I find one and I find myself sitting at a table with some of the prettiest and more popular women at school.  I figure it’s the cosmos telling me that Yes Paul, you have lived a good life.  I tell the cosmos Yes cosmos, thank you, but if I may be so bold as to ask where were you thirty years ago?  Water under the bridge I figure.  And everything happens for a reason, right?  To lead you down a path to a certain place and person, right Jen? 

Still, I think there are few stranger things in life than sitting next to not one but two female members of the homecoming court at your reunion and learning that one has two children over twenty years of age and the other one has six children and six grandchildren.  That is life literally laughing at you, and you saying to life WTF?  And then you show them the photos of your beautiful three year-old daughter and they oooo and aaahhh and tell you how adorable she is and at that moment there is less WTF and more understanding about life and its complexities and its occasional awesomeness. 

I find myself having a really good time.  Everyone is laughing and talking and gesturing and eating and drinking and the vibe is perfect.  For me all the b.s. of high school—the insecurities, the pettiness—have vanished, taken over by a maturity and self-confidence and ease made possible only by the passage of time.  I’m comfortable.

Marsha, who put together most of the reunion, takes the microphone and makes some announcements.  She gives out some tee-shirts and other little gifts for things like the longest marriage (Cindy, 29 years, wow!) and most places lived (Bob, a former baseball player, 34 places).  She also names everyone who served in the military, and when she calls my name everyone at our table cheers, and I’m slightly embarrassed.  Then Scott gets the microphone and he has been charged with telling some anecdotes and doing a little roasting, the best being about a classmate who is now a police detective, but who, according to Scott, couldn’t find his ass with both hands back in high school. 

So it wouldn’t be an evening if there weren’t a glitch, and this one is so distasteful I will just rush through it.  A person (I don’t even want to i.d. gender or name) I used to play a certain sport with (nope, won’t say the sport either, don’t want people deducing) came up and we had a pleasant conversation for awhile, until we were discussing something and this person managed to work in how those “filthy Mexicans” were taking over a certain area.  Wow, did you just say that?  Said person instantly went from mildly attractive to repulsive.  Never spoke to them again. Alright, enough negativity, let’s just Cel—e—brate good times come on! 

After dinner the d.j. starts to spin some of the music from back in the day, and unfortunately it’s not Aerosmith and other 70s rock I and a few others appreciate, but mostly the shit that can be danced to and rhymes with blisco.  No matter, it gets people on the floor.  I’ve had enough vino so that when Tara and some others grab my hand they don’t have to pull too hard to get me out on the dance floor where I proceed to get my funk on.  Oh my.

After getting said funk on for several sets the evening is coming to an end.  Tara is taking off and I tell her what a fantastic time I had and that it was beyond great seeing her.  It’s a bittersweet goodbye because even though I tell her my wife and daughter and I will be back in a month down at the beach and she and her husband should drop by if they’re around, I know I’ll probably not see her again.  Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be, that despite facebook and classmates and all these other electronic marvels that let us connect with past versions of ourselves, perhaps life tells us that the past should be the past, the present the present, and though mingle they may, never shall the twain meet in the future.  Except for designated Saturday evenings every decade or so.