The Big Five-Oh

High school reunion night! Made the long trek down to Wheeling to meet up with the ol' classy-class at Generations Pub for the least formal, most disorganized high school reunion on record (and we were supposed to be the "promising" class). It was pretty sweet, honestly. I saw so many people whose presence I delighted in. Got to see Jessica, who gave me a thoughtful "thank you" gift, just for proofreading a paper of hers. I did a shot to "people from high school trying to have sex with people they had no business sleeping with when we were in high school" toast with Pete Wilmost with some soca lime. And Justin Misenhelder (my reason for living) was there and fabulous, and also largely responsible for the evening taking an oh-so-Shannon turn for the interesting.

I saw a hot guy (these stories always seem to start this way...). I stupidly told drunk-face Justin. Drunk-face waltzes over to said hot guy and says, "My friend wants to meet you." Then drags me over to him, says, "This is my friend, Shannon." and leaves.

Ass.

So, I do my best to laugh it off and recover. He's not exactly nice, but he doesn't seem to mind the awkwardness of our encounter and is pleasantly talkative. I immediately recognize the Scandinavian accent and ask where he's from. To my suprise and delight, he's Swedish. I mean, my knack for picking out Europeans out of a crowd to be attracted to is uncanny. I am further amused to find out that he is a hocky player for the Wheeling Nailers...and want to call Julie on the spot so that we can have a minute to laugh together about me being incapable of going to a social hang-out to have a drink without a professional athlete showing up. He's engaged, so whatever...but the Nailers hilarilty continued in so many tangential side-stories that to recount them all here would be absurd. Basically, the night ended with a brawl in the parking lot at 3 in the morning, and me being eerily reminded of the Navy Seals debaccle in San Diego last fabruary. (I'm a magnent for trouble; what can I say?.)

I'm realizing that my standards have gotten so high that unless I'm hanging out with Derek Jeter, Elton John, and Osama Bin Laden in an ice bar outside of Antwerp, Belgium it's just not a big enough deal to get the camera out. No pictures backstage with The Fashion in LA, no candid photos hitting on the Nailers. Am I becoming an average girl with the experiences and expectations of a bonafide socialite?

Probably.