Makin Friends

Last weekend was my wife’s 25^th anniversary of her high school graduation. So, what better excuse to get together with a bunch of people, who, since the last reunion 5 years ago, you’ve been trying to avoid.

The first event of the reunion was on Friday night, and it was in a lodge, in a park near our house. Going into this, I thought that the only positive aspect of the whole evening was the fact that if I got really drunk, and made an ass of myself, I could walk home. Which, considering some of her friends, and once alcohol is mixed in, there is always the possibility that I’ll make an ass of myself. I’m not saying that I don’t care for some of her friends, but, well, let’s be honest, I really don’t care for some of her friends.

Before we go down that road, let’s move on, shall we?

So I’m standing around talking with another “dragged along husband”, whom, if we’re being frank here, (I’m not really Frank, I’m just being frank. Please don’t call me Frank), I don’t really care for. But, I was told I had to play nice and keep him company, or else he would be an ass to my wife’s friend. Apparently, there was a lot of “being an ass” potential in the crowd that night. Strange how that works out when spouses are dragged along to high school reunions. I may not be Sherlock Holmes, (or Frank), but I think I see a connection here.

Anyway, back to the story. As we’re standing there, people would come by, squint at us, screw their faces up, stick out their hands and say “I know it’s been so long, but I just can’t seem to place your face. Who are you again?” Since I was trying to be nice, I would kindly extend my hand in greeting and politely tell them that I didn’t go to their school, that I was my wife’s (who they all knew) spouse and that she was right over there if they wanted to talk with her. Most of them would amble away, so grumpy spouse #2 and I could get back to our drinking.

After about the 4^th or 5^th time of this (and about the 3^rd or 4^th beer), it was really getting old. I marched right over to the table where the name tags were, grabbed a blank tag and pen and in big block letters wrote:

“I DIDN’T GO TO YOUR SCHOOL AND I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU ARE”

For the other husband, I wrote this name tag:

I’M WITH STUPID (this had arrows underneath pointing to the right and left).

Now, as strange people came up to me, they’d stick out their hand and start to read the name tag. I’d start shaking their hand and wait until I saw the realization spread across their face that I was a complete and utter stranger to them, before I'd start laughing. It was great fun. Once the joy of that joke wore off, and I’d consumed a lot more beer, I snuck back to the name tag table, and in smaller letters, wrote “ , fucker” at the end of my name tag. That's when the fun really began.

Let’s just say, by the end of the evening, I didn’t have to walk home, but it was a close thing.