Hump Day: Nice reunion, despite new twist on meaning of “hump day”

Hump DayHump Day
By Brian Cormier
Wednesday, Aug. 15, 2012
Moncton Times & Transcript
Editorial section

Last weekend, I attended my 30th high school reunion. About 100 of us (out of the original 500 graduates) gathered at a local hotel to celebrate and remember. We’re older, wiser – and we were still raring to go! The bar was kept hopping as we enjoyed a great jazz trio providing background music.

I had a great time! Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I actually got a little tipsy. Well, to be honest, I was more than a little tipsy – and quite frankly, I didn’t care. Sometimes, you just have to have some good old-fashioned fun!

That morning, I dropped by the bank machine and made a largerthan-normal withdrawal. I usually only have $20 or $40 in cash on me – nothing substantial. But this time, I was going to need some serious cash if I was going to be paying for full-price drinks at a hotel bar. I withdrew $120, looked at it, thought of all the things I could do with it, such as sponsor a starving child in Africa, and then looked back up.

Nope, sorry. This money was not going toward some noble cause like feeding starving children. It was going to save my sanity via many glasses of red wine. I was in dire need of some social fun and I was bound and determined to have some.

I picked up a friend who was in town from Toronto visiting family. He was also in town to attend the reunion. I made the familiar trek out his mother’s home to pick him up. I had a nice visit with his mother and even had my arm humped by her dog. I guess my charisma knows no bounds.

After picking up some hangover-prevention groceries, we made it back to my place and he got attacked by my two cats and the dog who were all over him like white on rice. They’re quite the friendly bunch and have no qualms about begging for attention the minute someone new walks through the door. These are not shy pets, but at least they stop when it comes to humping arms.

After the mandatory petting and chin scratches, we left for the five-minute walk down the street to another friend’s house for our drive to the hotel.

The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur. There were lots of laughs, handshakes and hugs. I walked right up to one guy I hadn’t seen in at least 30 years and happily reintroduced myself, expecting a huge “Hi!”‘ and a probably a few sobs of happiness. Nothing. Didn’t have blessed clue who I was even after I explained. “Uhm, buddy, you came to my house for birthday parties when we were kids. I have photos.” Still no clue.

Yeah, I love you, too. I felt like telling him that I write the newspaper column that most often finds itself lining the bottoms of only the best bird cages in southeastern New Brunswick, but I didn’t see the point. Actually, we were pretty good friends way back when and I have to admit I was a bit surprised that he didn’t remember me.

At least he was honest, though. While I remembered (sometimes vaguely, thanks to the wine) most people I chatted with that night, there were a few incidents where I should have received an Academy Award for fake happiness. “Oh my God! I’m so happy to see you!” Of course, this was after them being so excited to see me that I felt the need to be just as excited to see them because obviously we used to be lovers or something, considering how incredibly thrilled they were to see me again.

Luckily, it didn’t happen too often, but a couple of times I found myself walking away from a crazily excited classmate muttering to myself, “I have no clue who that was and their name doesn’t even ring a bell.” Ah, the joys of high school reunions.

Throughout the night, I would remove the wad of $20 bills from my pocket and pay a crazy amount of money for a glass of wine. I didn’t care, though. That night, money was no object. And as the night went on, the tips got bigger and the wad of $20 bills got smaller.

Eventually, I hit my limit. I’d talked myself hoarse, hugged, danced, shook hands, laughed and everything else in between. Luckily, I still had my wits about myself and before leaving, remembered to pick up a door prize I’d won as well as a copy of the official group photo that was taken earlier in the evening.

I called a cab, poured myself into the front seat and made it home safe and sound. As soon as I got in the house, I plugged in my cell phone and brought the dog out to do her business before bed. We made it back in and I promptly checked my belt where my cell phone usually is.

To my horror it was empty.

I’d lost it. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember plugging it in just a few minutes earlier. The kabillion glasses of red wine had certainly not helped my brain cells.

Frantic drunken calls to the cab company and the hotel didn’t turn up my phone –of course. The more I tried not to sound like a complete sot, the drunker I sounded. Finally, I just gave up and said I’d worry about it the next day.

The next morning, with my head aching, my teeth stained red and my mouth feeling like I’d swallowed a mink coat, I found my cell phone plugged in and charged, thank goodness. What a relief ! I’d hate to think I wouldn’t be able to call all those people I didn’t remember. After all, we had a lot of catching up to do.

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