BMOC

A few weeks ago, I attended my class reunion. It's hard to imagine that it's been 25 years since I graduated from high school. Most days, I don't feel a day over 107 or so, and in some ways, I haven't changed. I discovered this weekend, that in some ways, neither did anyone else. All things considered, we still look pretty good.

High school wasn't that great pinnacle of youth for me, as I didn't feel like I fit in much. I was, to be honest, shy almost to the painful point, and I didn't have the same opinions as everyone else. Mostly, I waited to college to figure out that I could be who I wanted to be, and have been working towards that since.

But I like going to these things. I'm shallow enough to admit that I enjoy seeing how life has kicked the crap out of others and comparing it to how life has kicked the crap out of me. In some cases, I really do enjoy seeing that those few chicks who were ever-so-much-better-than-thou are overweight--to the point that Omar is making their dresses; and that the BMOC is overweight, balding, and not-quite-as-fab as he was so convinced he was.

Thing is, I proudly admit that I color the gray in my hair, and while Omar isn't making my outfits, I do not buy clothes that promote the idea that I am not aging. I'm lucky enough to find an outfit for the occasion that is attractive, and doesn't lead anyone to think, "God, does she realize how old we are?!"

This time, I heard a lot of comments centering on the idea that I haven't changed much--apparently, in high school, I was smart, funny--hilarious actually, and relatively pretty. Go figure. That's not how I remember it, but I'm also shallow enough to want to believe it.

But, this post is about that BMOC from high school. Wasn't he fantastic? Popular. Athletic. Class Officer. Fab-U-Luss, you betcha.

For anyone not sporting their glasses that Friday night (and yes, that vanity sucked in many!) he is overweight. Maybe not grossly overweight, but he's certainly not in any shape that would be considered smaller than a pear, or a large melon.

His hair is also thinning. Not as much as that football player guy who, despite the weight gain and the male pattern baldness is still mostly attractive, but, you know, Mr BMOC has a comb over in his future. I'm guessing before the next reunion, if the bellyweight and cholestrol don't get him first.

Anyway, Mr BMOC was never, in my opinion, a very nice person. Even as children, he was cruel in his jokes on those of us who were quiet and/or shy. And he always loved having an audience for those jokes. Nothing overtly dramatic, but cruel, just the same. Cruel enough that I still flinch when first spying him in room.

Mr BMOC married his soulmate. I say that, because Mrs BMOC was equally cruel. Except that she had a penchant for hitting me in the stomach. Once a week, at Brownies meetings, she'd nail me as soon as I got there. If she missed me coming, she'd be sure to get me before we left. Try walking home in February in western PA crying, 'cuz HELL YES it hurt, and trying to catch your breath, 'cuz HELL YES it hurt. And then trying to convince your mom that nothing happened, and your eyes and cheeks were red and chapped because it was that cold out. My stomach still clenches, and I flinch, whenever I see her anywhere. Hell, sometimes I do the reflex reaction when I just think about her at those Girl Scout meetings.

Mr BMOC was obviously sober that Friday, and hugged me, told me I looked good, as he worked the room.

I had to go outside and have a cigarette to get the stink off.