A blast from the ass of the past...

My 30th *gag* high school reunion is this weekend.

30th.

High school.

Reunion.

*crickets*

None of those words make any sense to me.

This would mean, it appears, that I graduated from high school THIRTY YEARS AGO.

That would make this, what? 2011?

Also? That would make me ridiculously close to being 50.

I'm pretty sure that there's no way in HELL that could possibly be true. According to my mirror and my rampant denial (which I inherited, fair and square, from my mother) I'm pretty sure I'm closer to 29 than I am to 50. Old people are 50. Vibrant, sexy, immature women like me are not almost 50.

Basically? Father Time can kiss the oldest, saggiest, part of my ass.

Meanwhile, during my senior year in high school the photographer had the smashing idea (that needs to be said with a cultured, snobby British accent) to have the student body form an 8 and then a 1 (because the year, you may have guessed if you can add and subtract, was 1981). We all hung out on the football field on a cold, foggy, California Central Valley morning, smooshing ourselves into the white chalk numbers drawn on the grass.

Lord, but we were a clever bunch.

When I got my yearbook that year and was thumbing through the photos, I had no problem finding myself immediately in the picture of the 8.

There I was, right smack dab in front (naturally), with the rest of the really, really tiny people... (Have I ever mentioned that I'm vertically challenged? No? I think of myself as "Fun Size!" like a little Snicker's bar.)


Except for that amazon girl standing next to me, gazing at me adoringly and hanging on to my arm.

*blink*

*blink*

I have no idea who she is. I am just as perplexed today as I was 30 years ago.

Who is she?

Where did she come from?

And why the hell is she hanging on to my arm??!!

(Also? How fabulously feathered was my hair? And how awesome was 80s fashion?)