My pen pals over at Weight Watchers just can’t stop caring about me enough. Yesterday they sent me an e-mail giving me pointers about “How to Recover From Your Wild Weekends.”
WEIGHT WATCHERS, YOU KNOW ME SO WELL!
Why did I ever break up with you? (Oh yeah, because you are a LIAR who has caused me to have trust issues about paying anyone $30 a month to make me lose 20 pounds. I will never fall for THAT line again. And you refuse to take responsibility for me failing at this!) Well, we can still be friends, I guess. (Call me, WW.)
But how could Weight Watchers possibly have known what kind of weekend I had? Maybe I should be concerned about the “Watchers” part of their name. WW, are you stalking me? I have paid in full.
If you consider having to consume catered dinners three nights in a row–Friday, Saturday and Sunday—to be a “wild weekend” then they were correct. It may be considered “inhumane” as well.
I’ll spare you the details on Friday’s and Sunday’s carnal pleasures… Let’s just say we were on the “rubber chicken” dinner circuit. You know what I’m talking about: the usual catered meal–some form of chicken, freezer-burn potatoes, and the inevitable string bean almondine. [All right! If you must know the details: Friday’s catered dinner was roast chicken (passable); Sunday’s dinner was chicken francais (inedible).] And that’s all you need to know about those paltry (poultry?) affairs. Seriously, they meant nothing to me.
Saturday, however, was the main event: my 30-year reunion from Fordham College. In da Bronx. They did not serve chicken.
I am not exactly sure what was served because I did not stop chatting with my old classmates long enough to even glance over at the table where I was supposed to be sitting. Although later I heard the filet mignon was delicious. Or so I have been told. (I am lying; I ate that entire mother effer. Suck it, WW! And stop following me.)
My lack of appetite (until the filet mignon appeared) was caused by the extreme heat that night. It was oppressively humid because the “Jubilee” was held outside in big, white tents on the expansive lawn known as Edwards Parade, or “Eddie’s,” for those who are familiar enough with this lawn to be on a first-name basis with it. Familiarity with this lawn is earned by 1) making out with someone on or near it; 2) vomiting on it; or 3) passing out on it. I have earned the privilege of being on a first-name basis with this place for all three of the above reasons. Also, for some reason, Fordham insists on calling our reunion a “Jubilee.” What a retarded word. And we are “Jubilarians.” Isn’t that stupid? (Yes it is.)
No matter what they choose to call it, it was a splendid time. It is always wonderful to get together with these special people. When you think about it, we only spent four years together, but so much was packed into those four years! When you live together, you really get to know each other. You see each other at your best and worst, help each other out in bad times, and rejoice with each other in good times. I will count my years at Fordham as some of the best years of my life.
Now we are older and supposedly more worldly-wise, and perhaps more sophisticated (?) Our lives are calming down, winding down. We are not trying to impress anyone. Many of our children are out of college and are older than we were when we met at Fordham 3o years ago. I learned that some of us are even grandparents already! HOW CAN THIS BE POSSIBLE?! Really young and good-looking grandparents, I might add.
But in many ways we are still the children (yes, we were children at 17 or 18) that we were back then, still pranking on each other and having fun. That night: I tried to roll a spare tire that was leaning up against the catering trailer across Eddie’s Parade to impress my friends. It was too heavy for me to get very far. It was also really dirty. So my friend helped me. Friends DO let friends drink and roll tires, apparently. (We put it back.) I accompanied another friend to the air-conditioned, portable trailer bathrooms (they were quite nice, and owing to the sultry night, quite popular) and laughed as she lifted up her dress in front of the air conditioner to cool herself off. (Some things never change; she was always lifting up her dress back in college! Heh-heh. But I kid, I kid!)
Later on, we moved outside of the tent onto the grass of Edwards Parade, where it was cooler and farther away from the loud band (because we are old farts), and sat in some chairs we took from around the tables. We sat around our little campfire, comprised of a few candles we had stolen off the tables. A few of the guys went back to the bars under the tent and got about six or eight beers and we just sat there on the grass and enjoyed those beers, laughing, recounting stories, and enjoying each other’s company. Just like we did 30 years ago.