Weeks ago I saw this invitation to an alumni meet in a social network. I said I would not attend. No chance. I got plans lined up for the evening. On the eve of the meeting there were sudden changes in my plans and it cleared the rest of my Saturday night. After a few calls to a couple of former classmates, I was having a good time meeting familiar faces,exchanging grins with more familiar faces, as well as hugging and chatting with the most familiar ones. A couple of ancient-looking teachers also showed up, bless them. The meeting ended at ‘children’s hour.’ Four of us, each from a different batch thought we should make use of the early night. We proceeded to Hard Rock.
Amidst vodka and martini I realized it has been awhile since I had a night life. The case is similar with my companions. Our alma mater raved about “service” and expected her graduates to be of service to society the moment they left her portals. For years we were all work work work. I felt we have become bottled pears. The band shot off with Bon Jovi’s It’s my life, and these old maids came alive.
Another old maid, ok that’s I, was glued to my seat rolling my eyeballs while working the camera. Techno-challenged me could not set it into night mode so I just crossed my fingers when I saw an image of Dame Edna Everage’s godson and his guitar.
There’s a possibility my co-old maids would tease me about being the ‘most old maid’ of all for not joining them on the dance floor. Earlier in the alumni meet I managed to embarrass myself for failing to recognize a close acquaintance’s wife right away. But it had nothing to do with dancing. I just sat in the dark and swayed to a Santana rhythm, letting Hard Rock refresh a rusty memory. What was her name again? God an old maid indeed.
I graciously accept the title.