Forty years after graduating from high school my husband decided to attend his first class reunion on September 16th.
  
Why now?

RJ reconnected with classmates and band mates on Facebook, which made him happy but invariably led to trouble—the reunion committee tracked him down. How the senior class president managed to avoid them for forty years is awe inspiring. (He’s a tricky one.)
 
RJ wants me to fly to Houston and participate in the reunion festivities with him. After individual episodes of sulking and five strenuous discussions involving unexpected expenses, archeological digs on past spending, don’t know anyone—it will be boring, can’t relate—in fifth grade when you graduated, and great news—we’ll get to see our son, Harrison…I’m thrilled to announce I’ll be attending my husband’s fortieth high school reunion.
 
The good news is it's not my reunion so I don’t have to worry about comparisons on how well we’ve aged. Hold on…what if I’m mistaken for someone in his class, someone seven years older than me?  That would be tragic but it has potential. I’ll get RJ’s yearbook out and decide who I want to be. When he’s busy talking to his buddies about this gig and that gig and the time they blah, blah, blahed, I’ll disappear and become the mousiest wallflower or the state championship swimmer.
 
I’m getting excited about the reunion. It’s going to be okay. The trick is to make things up and exaggerate like everyone else. When I’m asked how I’m doing or what I do, I’ll say doing darn good for a bank robber.