High school reunion.
So for those of you that are of legal drinking age and have departed the lands of your youth for study, or for the more exciting pattime of cruising around the country doing coke and picking up hookers, Thanksgiving is a truly magical time. It’s the time of year where those wandering souls find their way back to their ancestral lands like salmon, although these twentysomethings are not coming home to procreate, but instead return due their mother’s incessant whining and the dim hope of hitting their parents up for money.
It is also a time of year where, yes, everyone is home for the holiday, but they are home for a holiday that does not require visiting every person who shares a bit of genetic material with you. Plus, there really isn’t any decorating to do, so Thanksgiving Eve is not spent dusting off Nutcrackers or trying to avoid having to vacuum up countless pine needles.
So, for these reasons, Thanksgiving Eve is a perfect night to go to a bar, drink, and catch up with “old friends”. Now, I enclose old friends in quotes, at least when referring to my return to Woodbury. As I really only talk to two people I went to high school with. BUT THAT’S BECAUSE THEY’RE ALL BIG POOPIE HEADS.
The point is, this is a perfect time to discover who got pregnant, who is in rehab, and whose lives have generally fallen apart – that way, I could return to the icebox I call home in Dover with a heart warmed by the failures of those I grew up with.
I also went into this alcohol-infused reunion with a sick beard. I mean, my beard was friggin awesome. The critics have even referred to me as R. Grizzly Adams. My mom said I was ugly. Caitlin Hamer said it looked like shit.
Regardless, it was the perfect disguise.
I met up with my friend Lauren (one of two people I’m still in contact with), along with about a dozen or so people I haven’t seen or spoken to in about five years. Their reactions upon seeing me ranged from “Holy crap man, how you doing?” to a girl who had been in every one of my elementary school classes, who sheepishly said “hi…” as she walked by, realizing that she did in fact recognize me, but was somewhat worried that I’d be hiding in the back seat of her car when she drove home hours later.
Ah…the power of the beard.
From a distance, if people saw me, they probably just thought I was a well dressed hobo. If I made eye contact with them and waved, then they’d actually figure out who I was. So, basically, I was invisible until I decided I wanted to be seen.
I also missed a golden opportunity – I totally blew the chance to lie about what I’ve been doing since I graduated. These people don’t talk to me, they aren’t my friends on Facebook – they have no way of verifying what I say is true. I could have been a professional cyclist! I could have been on the fast-track to a VP spot at Houghton Mifflin! I could have been the official tour photographer for Slayer!
Although, I did say I’m the head of tech support for a printing and publishing software company. Which does sound a hell of a lot better than a guy who sits in his room ignoring phone calls and reading fan sites about Chuck and other characters on the show.
Critic? If I called you “R. The Guy From Nsync With The Beard Who Was Actually Kind of Funny in My Big Fat Greek Wedding (which was an otherwise incredibly unfunny and annoying film)”. Now THAT might be construed as criticism. Calling you “R. Grizzly Adams” is a form of reverence.
If Chuck Norris’ beard asked Ryan Kelly’s beard what time it was, his beard would reply “Two seconds ’til”. “Two seconds ’til what?” his beard would ask. “Two seconds ’til I kick you in the face”.
I could go on.
I hate how you refer to your beard in the past tense…
yeah, well-dressed hobo? i think you are giving yourself too much credit. you are not well-dressed
There are two responses that you’ll get when you tell them (truthfull or not) that you’re a professional cyclist.
1) They act very impressed. “Whoa, that’s awesome!” However, they’re really confused about regarding what being a professional cyclist entails and really are not that impressed. You’ll understand the latter part of this response when their eyes glaze over and there are lengthy pauses in conversation.
2) They act stunned and confused. More of a “What the F is a professional cyclist? Do you get your dirtbikes for free? Or is it motorcycles? …ooooh, bikes like that Armstrong guy? Hmmm… boring, I’m leaving this conversation.”
So don’t worry, you’re not missing much by forgetting to live your dream for a night. In fact, having a beard is far cooler than being a testosterone-lacking professional cyclist.