Last weekend we went to Peter's high school reunion. The number of years since his graduation was not a multiple of five or ten, but someone decided that with everyone turning eighty this year, they ought not to wait two more years until their sixty-fifth. So about six months ago, they started looking for fellow graduates, dead or alive. (We missed the last reunion because Peter was reportedly dead, so we didn't hear about it. By the time a member of his class saw a letter he wrote in the New York Times, it was too late.)
Over the years, I had met only a couple of Peter's high school classmates. So I was looking forward to getting the real scoop about my husband as a teenager. I was also looking forward to being in a room where I was the youngest, except for any trophy wives or husbands who might be there.
There was a cocktail party the first evening, and it was a whole new experience for me. Peter doesn't love social events. Normally, I take the lead in working the crowd. But that night, I pretty much sat in a corner and observed Peter as the social butterfly. He was engaged in lively conversations about I don't know what. Actually, no one paid much attention to me. This was so much the graduates' night that they didn't even make nametags for spouses or partners.
But watching him made it all worthwhile.