Or a mustache.

One of my old friends recently swung through on a visit.  He's been living in Germany, teaching the English.  We threw together the tattered remnants of our high school crowd (those who aren't too far away or too unpleasant) and went out playing board games and smoking hookah.  Woooo!  It was delightful to see all of them again- gawky adolescence has matured into capable and charming adulthood.  Or it has in them- I remain as acerbic and awkward as ever.  I doubt any of them would list their old compatriots as too irritating to spend time with, regardless of cause.  

Regardless, the whole event has put me in a high school reunion state of mind.  Contemporary culture dictates that someone's appearance at their 10th reunion is the best that they could do- it's the only reunion where one is still childish enough to deceive.  There's a silent assumption that whatever guise one brings to the meet and greet will be fixed in the minds of the old clique, the half-forgotten crush, the nemesis.  One hopes to be svelte, immaculately attired, and glowingly happy.  

I was (and am) about as socially adept as a Stellar's Jay.  B and I have discussed trickery that is likely to make him appear comfortably rich and me look like a functioning adult.  These are the small deceptions; the smashing dress, the rented car, the inflated job description...  but one worries about small errors that will stick in the mind.  If I should speak in sharp tones to my dear one, we are clearly on the brink of dissolution.  If the dress does not fit right, I am clearly as inept with clothing as ever.  And Lord forbid I get a giant zit just before the big dance.  

The last comment is gentle chiding from my internal adult.  Will I really think of the woman who is six months pregnant as six months pregnant for the next fifteen years?  

Yes.  Yes I will.  

So there is only one safe plan: confusion.  I will wear an eyepatch and claim to have scratched my cornea.  I will bring a box of infant wolverines who need to be bottle fed every hour.  I will have an elaborate magic marker tattoo of fighting kitchen appliances peaking out of my backless dress.  I will drink only club soda, and if someone presumes to congratulate me on potential parturition, I'll dig out an AA chip and warmly insist that it saved my life.  Anything to draw attention away from essentials.  

In short, I think the thing will be High School writ large- and I plan on falling back on my old coping technique- impenetrable oddity and making others uncomfortable.