I looked it up - it's called Sarlacc

I'm going to Boston on Friday and will get back Monday. I made a last minute decision to ditch it all and fly over to see my friend Janet and her fuzzy little baby and now I'm pissing my pants with excitement. (I should be doing Kegels instead of pissing my pants, but they make me feel dirty. Really, why?) I can't decide whether to rent some existentialist Hungarian movies that Jim would never watch (with good reason, I find existentialist theory only good in Greeting Card format) for the plane ride or to read something. I'm getting a little bored with my fiction lately and definitely need a break from my own brain. Perhaps I should visit someone else's thoughts for a while.

I'm not much of a planner, but I while I'm back there I thought we might get down to a soccer team reunion on Saturday. I've never been to a single reunion that wasn't planned by my mother, and the idea is a little frightening. I'm pretty sure we're all carrying a little extra baggage around the belly, but I'm worried nonetheless. What if they ask me to do that hilarious thing I used to do that I can no longer do? (There isn't actually a "thing," but still, they might think so, then I'd be stuck trying to come up with some kind of talent involving a handful of Ruffles and a hair elastic. Wait! I can do that!)

Reunions. I skipped my 10th high school reunion, my 10th college reunion, a second annual with an accountant (which isn't as much of a reunion as a really tortuous exercise in sleep deprivation). But then recently I got walloped with a disgusting bout of nostalgia, and all the truly annoying and bizarre behaviors of my former teammates seem sweet and well-intentioned. Remember how that chick used to do keg stands then try to beat holes in the walls with her forehead? How clever! Remember that other girl whose boobs would sweat two perfectly round shapes on the front of her t-shirt? Adorable! Remember how we all had body image issues and eating disorders were more common than blisters? Wonderful!



Nostalgia reminds me of that toothy-sandy vagina that Jaba the Hut watched people thrown into while he slapped Carrie Fisher's ass. The big sandy pit with sharp teeth and a pretty pink throat. Or a slippery slope. Pick your analogy, it's not a good thing. I'm typically a realist when it comes to memories, but for some reason, I'm having a hard time processing a lot of the crap I was dealing with in college in a realistic fashion. When I first heard about the reunion I admit to being excited and surprised. Surprised for being excited, because I would typically snort and make some derisive comment about that spazzy Super Frosh that wore a bow in her hair for her first game. And I worried that my excitement meant that I was getting soft. That or suppressing the bad stuff. But it's been two weeks now, and I'm still excited, and because I feel less sarcastic and critical today, I'm going to say perhaps I'm just over it? It wasn't all that bad, I'm a good person today, and maybe, MAYBE, some of those people are interesting and not at all drunk, sweaty or bedecked in bows. Or maybe I just want to see if anyone is gay.