I will show up to my high school reunion dressed like an Artisan Series KitchenAid Stand Mixer in Pistachio. My pedicure will peep out of kitten heels and I will be lightly strangled by a small scarf tied at my throat. My bangs will hover over my forehead light like a cirrus cloud and they wouldn’t hide the beginnings of a permanent furrow even if there was one. I will be so slender as to render my curves pert. I will be punctuated on either side by a pair of pearls that would be called understated if they weren’t a foil to the cluster of diamonds scattering light from my finger around the stem of my wine glass.
I will talk at length about my children named Cooper and Ella and Braden and Avery and we will compare notes about spacing and cosleeping and breastfeeding. We will talk about our breeding habits like gardeners discussing fertilizer. I will mention offhandedly that my husband is an actuary since I know you were wondering but too polite to ask, and I will bookend this piece of information with lamentations about the long hours he works, how he doesn’t get home until after the kids are in bed most nights, and you will notice my wedding band tap-tap-tapping the stem of my empty wine glass.
I’m going to show up to my high school reunion dressed like a big fake nail. I will have shimmering cheeks like the iridescent sheen on a piece of deli meat and my eyeballs will have false lashes like roman helmets. I will be perched on stilettos and I will be the color of terracotta. I will have a boyfriend, a babydaddy, and a 4 year old, and you will know them intimately by the time I’ve finished my fourth sour apple martini. I will bum a cigarette from a girl I hated in high school even though I quit when I got pregnant but this is a special occasion.
We’ll smoke by the dumpster and I’ll forgive her for that time she blew my boyfriend on Spring Break in Panama City when I was passed out on the balcony. I think I still have the airbrushed trucker hat from that trip. All seven of us are depicted as rudimentary stick figures in bikinis. I think I have a precancerous mole on my back from that trip as well but I haven’t seen the doctor because the tanning salon doesn’t offer medical insurance. God, we were so drunk.
I’m going to show up to my high school reunion dressed like a gluten-free carrot cake. I’m going to wear this great little wrap dress I found on Etsy, and the cool thing is it’s made by former child prostitutes in Bangladesh but you’d never know looking at it, such intricate beadwork! It’s amazing what children are capable of when they have the opportunity to self-actualize.
No thank you, I’m not drinking right now – I’m doing a cleanse to lose some of this baby wei- oh, you’re too sweet, chasing around two toddlers while swaddling a newborn is a hell of a good- yeah number three, he’ll be seven weeks tomorrow! We were trying for a girl but I just knew right away it would be another little man, you just feel these things, don’t you? There’s still plenty of time – God gives you hundreds of thousands of eggs for a reason, right?!
I will show up to my high school reunion dressed like a stock portfolio. I will wear a look of exhaustion and a Birkin bag. My ring finger will be conspicuously naked and some girl I never liked will ask anyway. I thought of asking my assistant as my plus-one to avoid this but that was before we went to Oslo on business, and he and I agreed the next morning that what happened certainly constituted “hierarchical misconduct,” a term so vague and politically correct that it could only have been dreamed up by a silver-haired Republican who only shows up at stockholder meetings.
I will make a snide remark about the organic cotton cloth diapers you won’t shut up about, and I will immediately regret it. You will fake laugh but regret approaching me at all. The first time you got alcohol poisoning was in my parents’ house and you left a trail of vomit from the suede couch to the potted plant to the hot tub. I was a complete bitch about it, which I still feel bad about because two weeks later I threw up all over our mutual friend’s guest room only moments after losing my virginity.
I will show up to my high school reunion dressed like a bathroom stall covered in inspirational graffiti. I will wear winged eyeliner and a severe haircut and I will reconnect with girls I was friends with in middle school and stopped talking to when I stopped talking to God. I will gulp down three PBRs while the class president starts talking about success from behind a podium and this will cure the hangover from last night’s bender.
I will meet the wife of the guy I waited on last month at the restaurant that he’s only patronized with his mistress and I will singlehandedly unravel his marriage. I will coach her through a breakdown by holding her hair back and repeating a useless mantra about positivity. At some point I will find a way to compare their marriage, about which I know nothing, to a can of sardines in my grandmother’s pantry that expired in 2002, and she will look at me, with red-rimmed eyes, in total disbelief.