I made it over the hump into middle age with most of my sanity intact and my self-confidence shored up by the passage of time and the fact that my acne had finally cleared up. Attending my high school reunion could mean the destruction of all that hard-won progress.
I began to wonder if stepping back in time might thrust me into an emotional downward spiral. I imagined a banquet hall filled with unrequited loves, former beauty queens and my adolescent nemesis, all of whom possessed the superpowers to return me (an otherwise reasonably happy, healthy adult) into a sniveling, blubbering masses of teenage angst in less than 20 minutes.
I couldn’t chance it (plus I wasn’t able to make it back to the States that fall…or so I thought).
My friend and I hatched a plan and with the help of modern technology—a blown up selfie, a wooden stick and some Elmer’s glue—I was able to attend the reunion by proxy.
Me, back row second from the left
After party girls
Apparently, I got more action that night than I ever did in the backseat of a ‘71 Camero.
Orvieto or Bust: 