class reunion

After 8 years, my college batch finally got its much-awaited yearbook. And no, we didn't set the record for longest yearbook waiting time...the class of 1980-plus got theirs after 12.

So the yearbook was out, and what better way to celebrate than to party and hold a reunion, right? For a class of around 900+, after eight years, we figured only a handful would come. Right we were. The batch e-group had only around 400 members, the Friendster group had only around 200...a networking and logistics nightmare if we had to send out invites.

But it was a blast, despite the fact that I only knew four people out of the twenty-plus who came. The two guys who thought up of the reunion pledged five thousand bucks for drinks and grub, and that covered so much beer and cocktails even for a place so swanky. (It's no Cowboy Grill, mind you.)

Them beers just kept coming, and I just kept drinking...and drinking, and drinking. I don't remember how many bottles I had, but I do recall that nobody paid attention to the pitcher of wengweng so graciously laid on the table except yours truly. I must have been really wasted, I might have said a lot of things I shouldn't have, like how marriage shouldn't be a lifelong contract or my gynecologist's findings from my last pap smear...I'm not really sure now.

But that's not where my adventure ends. The night had to end for me and I was driving my intoxicated ass home. I wobbled to the car and managed to keep my eyes WIDE open the whole trip. The fun part, though, was when I had to choose between the car's new floor mats or my skirt. My life partner would kill me if I chose the mat. Crap. No choice. So I hurled CHUNKS, man. The kikiam rice from Henlin, beer and wengweng, all on my Zara skirt. Hurling while driving! Kaya 'nyo yon?