What are the odds I can talk Whataburger into delivering?

Friends, it's official: I have entered the previously unknown land of the middle aged....I have had my 10-year high school reunion. **Gasp.** That's right, over ten years ago, I walked across the Frank Erwin Center stage and graduated in a nasty maroon polyester gown from the glorious Round Rock High School, home of the mighty (fighting?) dragons.

I hope this comes as a surprise to at least a few of you (and if not, then I have COMPLETELY failed at my attempts to disguise my very dominant inner nerd), but I was Senior Class President. Part of that commitment includes the understanding that you will lead the charge when it comes to planning the reunion celebration.

January of 2002 version of me: "Oh, surely I won't be doing anything of any real importance ten years from now. I can handle, no problem."

January of 2012 version of me: "Mother of all things holy, are you KIDDING me? I have to plan a reunion?? Now??? Of all times???? Can't we wait a year...or ten???"

In my defense, if I thought ten years ago that I would be planning a massive destination wedding, grieving the loss of a parent, moving  a Goose and practicing law during 98% of my waking hours, I would have scratched that line out of the contract. But alas, that's the way the crazy world turns.

Luckily for me, you, and the other 92,353,098 people we graduated with, the axis of the earth titled towards two very capable co-hosts. I don't typically name people on the blog, for fear that you'll cyber-stalk their awesomeness, but I MUST, MUST, MUST point out that this weekend was only made possible through the hard work, selflessness and dedication of two of my very sweetest friends: Erica (of "She's not really flipping the bird" fame) and Casey. If you're a RRHS Class of 2002 alumni, their allegiance you owe. Case and Monique, it hasn't been said enough: Thank you so, so, so very much. You each did an amazing job, and Saturday was something that you should be proud of. This picture is also something that you should be proud of:



This has absolutely nothing to do with this post. It just makes me laugh. And it has an antelope, so obviously.

I grew up in Round Rock, a city consistently named as one of the best towns in America to have a family. And there's actually a massive round rock in the middle of the town, so we win on literalness too.

Saturday morning, I jumped in the car at the crack of dawn and headed West. I called E as I left Houston. I hung up with E as I pulled into Round Rock. That's right, we chatted for the entire three-hour drive. We tend to have lots of opinions about lots of things, what can I say.

As a side note, as you remember from here, my parents just recently sold my childhood home so I was crashing at E's parents for the night. (Who, by the way, were at South Padre Island with my parents for a weekend of even more middle-aged fun. They tend to lead by example.) If I had a dollar for every childhood memory of mine that included the G homestead, I'd be a rich, lucky lady. I was there so often, in fact, that I claimed a bed in the house as my own. I could have moved in without a suitcase and still managed to clothe and bathe myself for 17 days due to the amount of stuff I kept there. If we were at all attempting to recreate our high school memories (and my hangover on Sunday suggests that we were), this was probably the best place to stage them.

E and I then proceeded with a frantic three-hour dash of pickups around Round Rock: the cake, the flowers, the balloons, the squish-it-all-in-slip.

She insisted on trying it on in the aisle. Oy vey, I can't take the crazy anywhere.

We then hit up an oldie-but-goodie RR legend: Pok-e-jo's. I begged E to choose something else, but she wasn't having it. You see, even when I have a dress to fit into for a "I don't want to look like a fat kid" event, I C.A.N.N.O.T. resist Pok-e-jo's fried okra. Or Texas toast. Dangit. So, I acquiesced, ate the fried okra and toast, and sucked it all in for the rest of the night. Success on both accounts, I'd say.

Reunion-time. Being the general cynic that I am, I was pretty positive the night was just going to be filled with awkward conversation after awkward conversation. That was before I remembered that there was wine involved. Raha! Win. Honestly, as soon as the room filled with so many people who I spent a lifetime with, a lifetime ago, I was at ease. These people know me, and I know them, and there is comfort in that, even if it was wine-laced. I was so proud to see my childhood friends as happy parents, successful professionals and adorable spouses. They reminded me of crazy times, happy events and peaceful growth, all of which I needed to recall.

Shall we end on a high note? I was awaken at 6:30am Sunday morning by Ted, E's dog, throwing his fairly large body across mine. I didn't have the energy to remove his tongue from my face, nor the strength to turn my own head away from his. There was a drum-playing gospel choir singing in my brain and my first thought, other than "Must.Move.Head." was "What are the odds I can talk Whataburger into delivering?" My mascara was smeared down my face, my car was parked in a neighborhood other than the one I was in, and I had zero clue where I had taken off my wedding rings the night before. (Goose, my father and my pride would like me to clarify....this ins't a state I'm often in, nor is it one I'd like to revisit anytime soon. Exceptions must be made, though.)

Ted, the second handsomest puppy ever. (Behind Paxter, of course.) 

An all-around golden success, I would say.