I’d like to think that this past weekend was a unique experience for me, but let’s face it, a twentieth college reunion has elements that are pretty much identical no matter where you went to school.
To help out all the other 42-year-old knitting bloggers out there who haven’t yet chronicled their twentieth college reunions, here’s a little template you’re free to cut ‘n’ paste. Add your own captions.
This is a camera guy. He followed the Class of 1985 all weekend. When I arrived at the reunion, I went to hug an old classmate and discovered he was wearing a microphone. I should have figured that at least one person in my class would be participating in a reality show. This classmate is making a documentary: “My Evangelical Sophomore Year in College, Or, Supersize Me, Jesus.”
This is my favorite English professor, who is on the verge of publishing his translation (from the Norwegian) of Edvard Munch’s journals. Twenty years in the making. Can’t wait! He explained to me what “The Scream” was all about. So glad to have that figured out. Clue: Not really all that much to do with knitting.
Here’s the knitting part. My senior year I lived in an apartment above a yarn shop. Can you believe it? The fumes from the yarn would waft upstairs just the way the toast aroma from the M&M Soda Shop would torment me. If I had been a knitter back then, I never would have graduated. My roommate Pam and I would sit on the front porch and play Where Did My Lips Go? OK, we didn’t really do that, but we loved being off campus in a place where there were maybe three apartments available to students. So sofisterkatid.
My Official Twentieth Reunion Souvenir Yarn Purchase was, of course, Twisted Sisters, which pretty much sums up my friendships at college. I was struck with how well we’re all holding up. Remarkably little plastic surgery! Not so much Botox!
During my senior year, this man held my academic destiny in his very coordinated hands. He is the campus photographer, but he also taught juggling as a PE class. He had no requirements about your proficiency as a juggler, but he was a demon about attendance. No show, no credit. I managed to fall one class short of his requirement, and I wasn’t going to graduate unless I did something drastic. I made a deal with him: if I juggled in front of major monuments during my senior semester in France, he’d give me my credit. It really did come down to my sending him photos of me juggling in front of the Eiffel Tower.
The Class of 1985. See the camera guy? See me?
I have always wished that I could travel through time. This weekend was as close as I’ve come: Wow, I thought. Look at all these classmates. They all look, like, twenty years older than me!