But in all honesty, the last ten years have been something to brag about.

This coming weekend is my 10 year class reunion. Gasp, I know. I don't look a day over twenty-one twenty-eight {and a half} and there is absolutely no possible way that I'm old enough to be celebrating such a milestone.

I thank you for your concern; you're all so very sweet and lovely.

But after a complicated and intricate math equation which involved me finding the square root of the squint wrinkles that are starting to develop between my eyes, divided by the size of my high-waisted, mommy-gut covering jeans, multiplied by the amount of times that it takes me to send a text message {with proper punctuation, mind you}. Add that to the fact that the highlight of my day is driving a minivan to library reading hour, followed by a stop at the park and then, if I'm feeling extra adventurous, pushing a racecar shopping cart filled to the brim with goldfish crackers, Bug Juice and wailing children. . . the answers proves to be nothing but true. I have indeed been graduated from High School for TEN WHOLE YEARS! And I'm afraid I'm just on the cusp of aging, things are destined to get worse. {Don't image. It's not a pretty sight.}

I've been on the class reunion frontier for a while now. At the first of the year, Breah and I were summoned to gather contact information for our classmates that don't facebook. Go figure! Just for the record, there's a few reason people don't facebook: a) they're lame {obviously} b) they don't want to be found, or c) they're in prison. At one point I suggested to Breah that we hold our class reunion at the county jail. "I think we'd have a good turn-out," I argued "half the class is already there and the rest are familiar with its location. Plus, I'd bet we'd qualify for the friends and family rate."

But 10 year class reunions can't be held at the local jail. A twenty year reunion? Possibly. A thirty year reunion. Absolutely. Because by that age people don't care. They're comfortable with who they have become and they have nothing worth proving. But at a 10 year class reunion, it's different. 10 year class reunions are to whine, dine and act refined. Right?

And I'm not so certain that I'm up to spending an entire day with people that are all dressed to impress and all that fancy shmancy trying to prove yourself and be cultured junk. It all seems too counterfeit, too staged. I mean, I went to highschool with these people. I know things. Instead, I would like to have my entire senior class over to my house for a weenie roast, followed by some serious Wii competitions. Now that's more my style {insert a Larry the Cable Guy git-r-done redneck joke here}.

Now don't get me wrong. I LIKED high school. I got high school.  High school was MY WHOLE THING. TEN YEARS AGO. I have fond memories of my high school years and I adore the people that I went to school with. However, I feel ill-prepared for such an event. I just don't have anything to offer for the upcoming reunion. Nothing to prove. No gossip factor, you know. I haven't had an affair. I haven't changed my sexual preference. I haven't been born-again after a short prison break. I haven't married a man twice my age or one made of ridiculous amount of shimmering gold and sparkling diamonds (no offense, honey). I haven't even had a boob job for crying out loud.

"Maybe we should go incognito to my class reunion." I mentioned to Spence one night after a you-will-go-to-the-class-reunion-and-you-will-like-it telephone conversation with Breah.

"Alright," Spence answered without even looking up from the project he was working on.

"I'll go as that one lady with the big lips. Um, shoot, what's her name? Oh yeah. . . Octomom. I'll go as Octomom. Who you going as?"

"Octomom's husband, I guess," he responded, unfazed.

See, 10 year class reunions need Octomom's. And Octomom's need 10 year class reunions. They have some major proving to do. But me, I still same ole', plain ole' Kim B. from 1^st hour math class.

Although. Although. I have gained a baby pouch big enough to house a nursery of newborn kangaroos (it's true, and I know that because I have consulted with experts). And I bet if we did a cost analysis we'd find that the initial cost of that bad boy outweighs the cost of that fancy black car you're braggin' about. Plus, the maintenance on this thing, out-freakin-rageous! You should see my grocery bill.

And while we are on the subject, wanna know what else? My upcoming class reunion makes me hungry. Don't laugh, it's not a joke! I have gained 7 (seven!) pounds since my last weigh in. Now that, my friends, takes hardcore talent. I bet Miss trying to impress fake-boobs-tanning-bed-tan couldn't beat that. I'm a rockstar just waiting for my big break. But until that happens, I'm going to be preparing for the upcoming reunion. It involves chocolate chip cookies, ice-cream and a spoon.

And possibly a black wig, eight newborns and a tube of lipstick.

P.S.

Tour de feet pictures from the weekend to come.