Last weekend was homecoming for my alma mater. Hundreds of people traveled to participate in class reunions. John's class had their fortieth and his mother had her seventieth. A slew of spouses tagged along at the open houses and fancy dinners. While I was not expected to know who everyone was I overheard the whispers between classmates.
"Who is that? Really? What happened to his hair?"
Being two years younger I knew some of the members of '73. There were several in particular that have barely changed. I hugged one of them.
"At least you are not annoyingly tan," I teased.
"Well, under these long pants I am because I ride a bike to work." I love him enough to forgive his perpetual youth.
One woman told me about her husband's fiftieth reunion. They learned ten years ago that trying to go to everything is a mistake. They limited themselves to daytime parties.
She asked him if the
head bullies had given him a hard time.
"No, because I wasn't home."
He had learned how to extricate his ego from the taunting inner voices that grapple for his attention. Being gone meant he was not vulnerable.
A few weeks ago a friend said that she was frustrated with the solicitors and evangelists that knock on her door. Someone else suggested she simply not be home.
Next week is Halloween and if any of my neighbors do not choose to participate in the candy free for all they will turn off their outside lights and not answer the door.
The next time a persistent urge to gripe at John rings my bell I think I will slip out the back.
