Your Mission, Should You Choose To Accept It....
Sunday evening, I got a call from an old classmate of mine.
Old, as in, we went to school together waaay back in the day. Not old as in, chronologically different from me in age; we are the same age, obviously which is to say, old.
And, I digress.
Anyway, she has taken on the challenge of planning our twentieth high school reunion for later this summer and she was hoping for some help.
I was quite surprised to hear from her, having assumed that we would be going without a reunion to mark the occasion of being a second decade past our prime, but, nay. I assumed that we would go reunion-less because, when I planned the ten-year reunion in 1997, help was not exactly forthcoming from my classmates and the whole thing ended up being a gigantic pain in my tookus, causing me to swear upon pain of death that I would never involve myself in the planning of a reunion for those ungrateful people ever again. And, if I wasn’t going to do it, who would?
Apparently, my old classmate. You have to give her credit for blind optimism; innocently assuming that she will actually convince people to, you know, help. God bless her.
And, if you think I jumped right up and offered my services, you didn’t listen to the part about doing so on the pain of death.
Ok, so you’re right; I caved and will be helping. I am such a schmuck.
Anyway. The reunion will take place during my hometown’s annual summer festival in July, giving me about four months to whip my sorry ass into some semblance of shape.
Thus, Operation Hottie by July commenced, immediately.
Yesterday, I was working out with hand weights and bitching mightily about the pain, the pain! My god, the pain! Why must looking good require so much effort? Why?!
Hugh was unsympathetic to my cause and actually had the gall to question the necessity of Operation Hottie by July as it was explained to him.
Hugh: Why are you so worried about looking good? Who are you trying to impress?
Chelle: No one. Everyone.
Hugh: And, why is that, again?
Chelle: I’m female (tortured sigh and exaggerated eyeroll); the need to appear effortlessly beautiful to my peers is, like, hardwired into my DNA.
Hugh: Whatever. You’re being ridiculous. Men would never do something so crazy.
Chelle: Really? Yet you will puff out your chests and suck in your stomachs when a cute waitress at Hooters serves you hot wings.
Hugh: I don’t do that.
Chelle: You would if we lived anywhere remotely near a Hooters.
Hugh: I see your point. Carry on, then.
Prepare yourselves for several months of bitching and moaning about sore muscles, eyebrow waxing and Man's Inhumanity to Man as it pertains to the chances of me ever getting a decent haircut.
I know! The anticipation!
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