We went to DH’s 15 year high school reunion this week-end, dropping Mo and Co off at their grandparents house along the way. I swear we slowed down to like 15 mph before we booted them into the driveway, shouting, “Tuck and roll! Tuck and roll!! Mo! Pick up your sister’s eyeball!”
Anyway, there were a myriad of activities in which to participate in, including cocktail parties, dinners, panels that offered perspectives on the future of the current students, the future of the school, alumni lacrosse games, and so on. Jam packed fun in about 105 degree heat. It’s tough to look like the wife of a member of the Board of Trustees when you’ve got rivers of sweat careening off of your face, splashing into your cleavage and making you look like you’re participating in a one woman wet t-shirt contest, but I did my best.
Now, I went to a private school myself and am familiar with all of the stereotypes associated with private, all-girls, Catholic school. DH’s school is a private boarding school that was all boys up until he was junior. And of course, there are the stereotypes that go along with that. Of course, both of those lists are blogs best saved for another day.
Still, the experience I am about to recount transported me back to high school so fast, I swear I had on a blackwatch plaid skirt and a Mount Saint Mary Academy sweater when it was all over. Anyway, on the second night of the reunion, after a wine and cheese reception, a dinner was held for all of the classes. Very nice affair. There was a band, an open bar, good food, and more alums were coming. In the midst of all of this revelry, I decide to sneak off to the ladies room. I guess as a throw back to when there weren’t any girls, this particular bathroom has one stall. Yes, a ladies room with one stall. I’m thinking it’s more of a water closet than a ladies room, but potato, po-tah-toe, if you get me. Inside this little place is the occupied stall and four other women who all give me the overpriveleged-$400 highlight having-I-wear-nothing-other-than-Manolo Blahniks–in-my-size-double-zero-Diane-Von-Furstenberg-sheath-mini-dress-that-I-can-squeeze-into-because-I-only-eat-Tic Tacs-and-Evian-water stinky eyeball. Hey, I’m just trying use the toilet.
So after I get the once over, they resume talking about their plans post dinner. Evidently, there’s a club in DC that they want to go to where they plan to and I quote, “Get fucked up.” (Katt Williams was right!!!). Alriiiiiiiiiight. I’m guessing at this point, they must be from the class of 2003, but hey, I could be wrong. The one in the stall comes out to wash her hands and the next one goes in. Hand washer begins to lament about having to be on a list to get into the club and the other two Ladies in Waiting start in with a chorus of “What’s that all about? What list? There wasn’t a list last time. . ” and so on. Hand Washer then points to a drink on the side of the sink and says, “Is this mine? I’ve had like seven already, so it probably is.” Wow.
The little chorus of how are we going to get to the club continues until the second one comes out of the stall and silences them all with a, “If we get there before 10pm, we don’t have to be on the list,” and punctuates it with a “God” that is eerily reminiscent of Cher and her Clueless cronies. As she’s washing her hands, her friends keep talking. One of them says, “I don’t see why there has to be a list.” Ol’ girl at the sink turns to her lineup of friends, and since, I’m still waiting to use the toilet, I’m included. “Well you know, ” she says, grabbing her paper towels, “DC is like Hollywood for ugly people.”
What.The.Crap?
Pushing past her twittering coven with their flesh piercing clavicles, I gave them all my best Blue Steel and finally made it into the stall. Ahhh, high school.
