My college reunion is tomorrow night. I'm so excited to show everyone that I no longer:
1. Fall down stairs while holding a plastic cup of Busch.
2. Wear a shirt that says, "12th Floor Sherburne Hall: We Like It On Top."
3. Pass out on my front lawn after an all-nighter.
4. Wear black Reebok hightops with every outfit.
I didn't even live in Sherburne Hall, but I liked the shirt so much, I borrowed it. The owner of it was my husband-to-be. He's so classy. He wore it with tie-dye Zubaz. Yep, that's my guy. The father of my children.
I lived in Benton Hall at St. Cloud State University. A dorm that required a minimum 3.2 GPA to live there. My theory was this: if I lived in fear of getting kicked out, then I wouldn't fuck up. That didn't work, even though it sounded like a brilliant plan when I registered.
Regardless of how much of an ass I made of myself, what I truly hope is that I was nice to everyone. I think I was, but to be safe, I'd like to send out a blanket apology in case I was drunk and had some choice words with you.
So, to anyone reading this: I'm sorry if I puked on you, I'm sorry if I jumped on you on the dance floor, I'm sorry if I stole a cup at a kegger and didn't pay the required $5, and I'm sorry if I said your boyfriend was "un-cute". I swear, I don't recall ever doing or saying any of these things, but just in case.
Tabula Rasa, right? Clean slate.
That's the beautiful thing about reunions. It's your chance to offer up a new perspective to people who last remember you singing, "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-A-Lot, and then falling off the table from which you were standing.
So, here's to the gift of being able to evolve, grow, change, and create yourself. Cheers!