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Brown And Gold Make Silver Sunday, Jul. 15, 2007 - 12:43 a.m. I went to my 25th high school reunion, feeling a little apprehensive because frankly, since 1982 -- I've filled out. I had NOTHING to worry about, because BOY did just about everybody else. As far as the guys went, rippling abs were replaced by table muscles. And more than a few of the fellas there are now channeling their hormones for more important things than merely growing hair on their heads. Most of the girls I went to high school with now have motherly hips, I'll bet more than a few have already dealt with their first grandchild, and the rest of the now-goddess-shaped contingent have probably become more like me, in that life is just too damned short to skip eating a really good slab of tiramisu. --- For me, the most important moment of the reunion did not take place on the physical plane. It happened when I walked up to a friend of mine named Chris Gomez. Chris went to the same elementary school as me, and even though we were never actual official friendy friends when we were kids, (as opposed to Paul Milkey, with whom I traded rocks and watched Kimba) he never failed to be nice to me if I ever needed to speak to him for whatever reason. It occurs to me that he's one of less than a dozen people ever on the planet who have known me for more than thirty-six years. And yes, I'm counting immediate family there, too. I honestly had no idea if he would recall who I was, so as I approached to say hello, I made sure my name tag was visible. I opened my mouth to say something, and he beat me to the punch. "Brin! You don't have to show me your name tag!" and he gave me a very welcoming hug. He turned to Kimiko Azama, (who had also gone to the same elementary school as Chris and I did, but I didn't meet her until third grade) "We go way back, Brin and me!" Then the three of us recalled the teachers from that school that terrified and delighted us in turn. To be acknowledged by a friend who has known me since I was six? If there's such a thing as being quietly overwhelmed -- that was what happened. --- I doubt there were two hundred people there, which is a little sad, because it was a really nice time. But deep down inside, I didn't see the balding or the spare tires or the pear-shapes or the wrinkles. None of it mattered. Not in the ways that are important. What matters is the simple miracle that yes, we did survive high school, and yes, most of us are still on this side of the dirt, come hell or high water. The Class of 82 has had its share of both, that's for sure. --- Okay. That's it. I'll be back in San Francisco later this afternoon. Dear Fog: I miss you. See you soon! ---
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