reunited (college edition)

6 June 2006
Prior to attending my five year college reunion, I thought my post-reunion angle for the blog would be to write a guide to college reunions; a how-to successfully navigate the awkwardness inherent in reunions, especially if you were known as the guy who got caught masturbating in the laundry room floor of Fenwick Hall freshman year (doing the one arm push-up, no less).

But after attending the reunion, I realize that that would be impossible.  If I were to do that, I’d have to write two how-to’s:

Larry Awesome’s Guide to College Reunions (For Men): How to Gain 25 Pounds, Drink Yourself into Oblivion, and Get Depressed

and

Larry Awesome’s Guide to College Reunions (For Women): How to Lose 15 Pounds, Look Spectacular, and Make All the Now-Fat Drunks Who Wanted Nothing to Do with You in College Even More Depressed

I joked that this was not my five year reunion, but rather my five year revenge.  Don’t get me wrong, I had a great time in college.  I have no regrets – at all - and carry no personal vendettas against anyone I went to school with.  If anything, I hate Boston College as an institution, since I was thrown out of housing two of my four years there.  However, out of high school they gave me a scholarship that I had no business getting which allowed me to go to school there, so it’s a push, I guess.        

By the grace of God and the boredom of thousands of (extremely) unproductive workers, some pretty cool things have happened to me since graduation.  All of this, I would assume, would be a major surprise to my classmates.  If at graduation there were any sort of awards, I’d be much more likely to win “Most Likely to Have Restraining Orders in Each Time Zone in the US” or “Class Arsonist” than any award relating to actual semi-legitimate success. 

(I wince when I use the word “success,” as it implies a reward for hard work, perseverance, originality, and dedication – not related so much to poop jokes and repeatedly asking women you don’t know for threesomes via email and/or MySpace message.)

It’s not that I’m above not bragging about myself to others, it’s that I really didn’t have anyone to brag to.  It’s not like I was going to go up to random people at the reunion and say, “Hey, you didn’t know me in college, but you probably know me now.  Buy me a beer, asshole.”  I approached the reunion for what it’s worth: a chance to meet up with old friends and hook up with any old flames who weren’t engaged.  Simple.  I know that most of my guy friends felt the same way.

For women, however, it appeared to be a different story.

Upon my arrival at Walsh Hall, the dorm on BC’s campus usually reserved for sophomores where the class of 2001 would be staying for the weekend, I was hanging out with my buddy Matt who said, “So this weekend we get to see which chicks got fat and which chicks got really fat.”  The five guys in the room all high-fived and muttered things like, “Yeah, fat chicks” and “Totally – though I’d still do them!” (I said that second one).

Well, we were wrong.  Big time.

In a completely surprising turn of events, the women at the reunion looked SPECTACULAR.  I put that all in caps to stress how good they really looked.  And us guys were SHOCKED (again, notice the caps).  Truly fucking surprised.

It seemed as though women had been preparing for this reunion since they graduated from college.  There is no other way to explain the metamorphosis that took place in many of them.  I’m not just talking about how they were thinner and fitter, though that was certainly the case.  They dressed better, were tanned, and seemed more confident, as if they knew that guys were looking at them thinking, “Holy shit – that’s Jessica?  Last time I saw her she was sucking down a Miller Lite at the Kells and we were throwing balled up napkins down her shirt!”

Also, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that there were a decent amount of boob jobs in the house. Some were tasteful about their new boobies, wearing shirts that revealed just enough cleavage to raise a few eyebrows (and birds) but maintaining non-whoreishness.  On the other hand, there were a few girls who seemed to be saying, “Fuck you all – I paid for these titties and I’m gonna show them off” and wore shirts that looked like little monkeys had ripped into them, revealing more boobie than should appear on any Catholic university’s campus.

(Not that I’m complaining.)

I still can’t get over it.  I showed up at the reunion with two thirty packs and a cooler full of ice wearing a four year old polo shirt.  Many girls showed up dressed to the nines and looking F-I-N-E.  And no, I didn’t mean for that to rhyme.  It just came out that way.  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about the change in hotness in many of the girls I went to college with.  I was talking about this to a female friend and she pointed out that girls drink many times a week and subsist on dorm food in college.  Logic would follow that after graduating and getting a 9-5 job, drinking would subside a bit and better food choices would be made (like sushi instead of a chicken finger sandwich).  This makes sense.  But that doesn’t mean it was any less surprising.         

Meanwhile, the rest of my guy friends, without naming any names, had, um, expanded.  It seems like just about every guy gained at least five pounds, some significantly more (to say nothing of hair loss, which is so not funny that I won’t make any jokes about it).  This made me feel great, since I’ve been the same size since about senior year of high school (except for my stretch studying abroad when I lost weight because I had to stop eating due to economic considerations).  I’ll take ”looks bad but at least he’s consistent” as opposed to “looked good but spent the last five years drinking milkshakes on a bean bag.”      

That didn’t stop us fat guys from oogling the girls.  We were sure to take advantage of that, even though more than several guys didn’t seem healthy enough for sexual activity.  There’s nothing quite like drinking 20 beers, eating $25 worth of Chinese food, then going out to the bar and saying “Damn” to yourself over and over again as you realize the girl with the nub on her back who sat next to you in Poli Sci got it removed and apparently put it into her new, tan boobies.   

The one group who lost out in the reunion were the girls who were hot in college.  There were several groups of girls who were smoking hot in college and served as masturbatory material for hundreds of students.  These girls still looked good at the reunion, don’t get me wrong, but they looked a little worn out (probably from years of fucking guys with muscles and hair gel who slap their asses in public and/or at holiday dinners).  In college, at many a drunken party, I sat bitter, intoxicated, and lascivious and stared at these girls, wondering what would become of them after graduation.  Now I know.  Nothing.  They are exactly the same – and I mean that in the worst way possible. 

[wipes venom off computer screen, puts penis back in pants]

People got fat, people got skinny, people stayed the same.  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but it was really fucking fascinating.  And entirely too short.  Personally, I didn’t do much.  We stayed up late drinking each night, each night ending in a haze, but there was nothing universe-collapsing that happened.  My favorite time during the reunion was on Saturday afternoon, when it was raining sideways and about 55º and my buddies and I sat in a dorm room, drinking and playing Asshole for a few hours. 

That’s why the reunion was too short.  Each night there was an event and lots of heavy drinking.  I have no problem with the later, but the whole thing felt rushed.  There was no time to really catch up with anyone aside from the cursory “How are you? What do you do? Where do you live? Nice to see you!” conversation.  I could have sat in that dorm room playing drinking games and pounding canned beer for at least a week.  You know, like I did in college, but with more jadedness and anger. 

Now that it’s over, the real question is what happens in the next five years at the ten year reunion.  It’s ok to be “Eh” for the five year reunion; hell, I’m still only 26.  I have no problem with waking up on Saturday morning and needing 45 minutes to figure out whether or not I pissed the bed the previous night.

But in five years, I’ll be, um, 31.  That’s fucking old (no offense to people 31 and older).  I have no idea what’ll happen between now and then.  I don’t know what job I’ll be doing, since I’m guessing everything good that has happened for me will have fallen apart by then, leaving me Assistant Manager at the local Pep Boys.  I don’t know if I’ll be married by then.  I mean, I will have been married by the time I’m 31, but whether I’m still married or divorced at that time, I’m not sure.  And I don’t think I’ll have any kids, since I’m not sure how fertile I am (I’m not a doctor, but I would guess it’s not looking too good).    

But one thing I do know: I will be much fatter and much balder.  At least I have that to look forward to.