First off, an update on yesterday’s post about how I suspected the paper shredder in my office may be using cocaine.
Shortly after publishing the post, reality hit. I had just written and shared nearly 600 words with all of the internet about a piece of office equipment that, in my colorful imagination, was addicted to illegal substances.
I realized that upon reading these 600 words, the citizens of the internet might come to the conclusion that I was, for lack of a better word, “cray cray”.
Naturally, I insisted Scott read the post immediately and weigh in with his thoughts.
About ten seconds in, he started chuckling.
“I just remembered something,” he snickered. “A few days ago I ran an empty flour bag through the shredder. I think that’s where the ‘cocaine’ came from.”
I’m not sure which upsets me more — the fact that my paper shredder isn’t actually addicted to crack, or the discovery that it’s been eating refined carbohydrates without me.
I was about to ask Scott why he had decided to run an empty bag of flour through the shredder, but then I realized it was another one of his flamboyant attempts to save the planet as shredded paper is 100% recyclable.
This Saturday is my 10-year high school reunion. While many people avoid these things like the plague, I’m actually flying halfway across the country so I can partake in the sentimental rite of passage. While the years of 1999-2002 certainly weren’t my finest, I would go so far as to say that I had a wonderful high school experience. Despite being semi-awkward, not having the coolest clothes, sporting a forehead that was covered with acne, and riding the bus until the last day of my senior year (my parents refused to buy me a car), I genuinely liked myself in high school. I felt confident as I had a supportive family who made believe I was capable of anything. I felt stimulated as I had excellent teachers who challenged me and invested in my future. I felt loved as I had a great group of friends who made me feel like it was okay to be myself.
So, my experience at Franklin Pierce High School in Midland, Washington was actually kind of awesome. Middle School? Now that’s a totally different story.
(Three words: Lisa Frank Backpack.)
(Four more words: Wasn’t allowed to shave legs.)
(Oops — that was five words. This explains why my otherwise straight-A record was tarnished with a series of C-pluses in Math.)
Anyway, I’m really looking forward to reconnecting with old friends at the reunion this Saturday night. That being said, I’ve seen Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion far too many times to be oblivious to the reality that often times, ‘ish tends to hit the fan in a major way at these events. This is exactly why I’ve set some “ground rules” to abide by this weekend.
1. Don’t drink too much.
One of my friends tells a story of how a girl at his reunion had way too many cocktails, and ended up running around the room congratulating people on “not getting fat” over the past ten years.
This sounds exactly like something I would do.
Except I would probably drink too much and then inform people that they did get fat over the past ten years.
Aside from being horrible behavior on a variety of levels, this would also be severely hypocritical as I myself have put on a few pounds since senior year.
And by a few I mean…like…twenty.
So yeah…two drinks is my limit.
2. Refrain from injuring myself or others with my shoes.
Remember the banana dress I ordered just for the reunion? Yeah…well…let’s just say it didn’t work out so well. I mean, honestly…who knew bananas could make your hips look so big?
As a backup plan, I’ve decided to wear my newest pair of stabbing shoes.
Truly, nothing says “I’ve made positive, successful choices over the past ten years” quite like a pair of shoes that’s illegal in six different states.
My first priority is to not to impale any of my former classmates with the hardware adorning my feet.
My second priority is to avoid falling and break my cankle again.
I think following rule number one will significantly help with this.
3. Don’t be TMI girl.
This one’s going to be hard.
But I’ve learned one too many times that tales about your dog’s digestive issues or your dad’s fingernail collection aren’t exactly…well…charming.
Although I suppose charming is a relative word, no?
I’m going to ask Scott to discretely pinch the back of my arm anytime I start sliding down the slippery slope of over sharing. I’ll probably have bruises covering my triceps for the next two weeks as a result, but I think it will be worth it.
So, those are my rules. If I manage to stick to them, I think this Saturday will be a delightful experience.
And if things end up going horribly awry?
Then my friend Amy and I are just going to claim we invented jeggings and see where the evening takes us.
A solid back up plan, if you ask me.