For me, it's fifty years since high school. My graduating class is having a fifty-year reunion this summer. I probably won't go. I've never gone to a high-school reunion (I won't go into the reasons now), but the class has a web site, and there are photos posted of luncheon gatherings the class has held the last two summers.
Those fat, old, gray-haired people can't possibly be the same people as the slim, young people I knew in high school. I can only identify them by the captions to the pictures; I'd never know a single one. Some of them look better than others. There's the quarterback of the football team: he looks like he's in good shape and stands very erect. But so many are overweight. Two are in nursing homes (no, they're not in the photos), others use canes or oxygen bottles. A number—too many—sadly have passed away.
I am sure that I don't look like they do. Somehow—good genes, clean living (okay, stop laughing!)—I escaped thirty years of aging.
Now, if you believe that. . . .
Copyright © 2009 by Richard Stein
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