Hello! My Name Is...

While I enjoy a brief reprieve from the combined forces of production and holiday madness, a belated post seemed like a good idea.

I survived the triple threat of Thanksgiving, my 38th birthday and my 20th high school reunion. All this thanks to a loving and supportive family, reasonably clean living and name tags.

Regarding class reunions... don't believe the hype! While the Carroll '86 reunion committee did a fine job, all the apprehension fell away the moment I realized I was in a room full of strangers. Outside of the small handful of classmates I still hear from, I hardly remembered a soul.

Don't get me wrong. There were charming people around the open bar (including a stunning woman from San Diego who I failed to introduce myself to -- some things haven't changed in 20 years!). Some even seemed to remember me... slightly.

I could blame the memory lapse on the Catholic school system that segregated us into Girl's Side & Boy's Side. How could I remember any of the girls when I hardly knew them to begin with? I have to stop blaming the Church at some point, though.

Nope, it's just this. In fine Proustian fashion, high school reunions awaken all the awkward tendencies of youth. Why else would a 38 year old person act like they're reliving the prom? The truth is that the people you dread seeing won't be there (or be recognizable). The girl or boy you always wish you went out with... they'll be married with children and not what you once fantasized about at all (don't worry, you won't look like you did either -- unless you've sold your soul. I'm looking at your Mr. Vanderlaag).

In the tradition of the late and witty Douglas Adams, I can now officially label high school reunions as... mostly harmless.

BTW, thanks to my fellow classmates for my "Most Hollywood" award. We'll discuss how it can be construed as an insult some other time. I know your hearts were in the right place (even if it did take a glance at the yearbook to remember who I once was).