Mrs. Robinson, legacy

25th high school reunion.

Several weekend parties, but one was in a backyard where I’d swum 25 years earlier. I’d been “intimate” with the owner of the estate many years earlier, and we were—as usual—cordial when we kissed hello. The patriarch had died years earlier, so she was the queen of the ball. Her daughter, my old high school classmate, had become a prominent editor and memoirist, and her twin grandkids (my classmate’s kids) were graduating from our old high school this year. This party would be a combo reunion and high school graduation party.

I walked around, chatting with my old buddies. I recall thinking about age. We were all 43, and they were all 18. It was easy to tell us apart. I recall thinking that a fairly homely 18 year old would be a complete hottie amongst 43 year olds. I wondered about that from an evolutionary perspective.

“Hey.”

I was startled, aware suddenly that I was amongst people. I was immediately saying hello back and flustered that was chatting with a fresh faced waif who was, obviously, amongst the 18 year old demographic.