July 9, 2004

BY DEBRA PICKETT SUN-TIMES COLUMNIST

It's easy to get all worked up about going to a high school reunion. Do you look good enough? Are you successful enough? Will the popular kids finally talk to you? Will everyone finally have forgotten about that horrible mooning incident at the prom?

So you try a crash diet. And get the perfect haircut. And rent an expensive car.

But, still, you worry.

There's just no way around it -- the adolescent trauma runs too deep.

Unless, of course, it's not your reunion.

Being a reunion date is the best of all possible worlds, particularly if there is an age difference involved. You get great scoops on all your partner's youthful indiscretions, without any marital why-aren't-we-doing-as-well-as-those-other-couples baggage. And, if you happen to be younger than your significant other, you get to be the youngest person in the room. If you're older, you can pretend to be the richest.

There is absolutely no downside.

Which is why I jumped at the chance to accompany The Boyfriend to his 20th reunion in Eldridge, Iowa.

Different last names

Giving his name at the sign-in desk, set up right by the main entrance of the Eldridge Community Center/Skate Park, The Boyfriend quickly faced a barrage of questions.

No. 1: How long have you been married?

"I'm not," he stammered. "I haven't...."

No. 2: How many kids do you have?

"Uh, none."

No. 3: So, no grandkids then?

"Right."

No. 4: How far away do you live?

By this time, he was so freaked out that he could barely mutter, "Chicago."

The woman at the desk, who looked like she had spent the last 20 years in a really well-appointed gym, pecked away at a laptop computer, entering all of The Boyfriend's data, such as it was. There were, she explained, some competitions going on: who's been married the longest, who has the most kids, the oldest kids, the most grandkids, and who traveled the longest distance to be there.

He looked at me, standing behind him with a John Edwards-size grin on my face, and shrugged his shoulders. They clearly weren't having any contests he could win.

We made our way over to a group of guys he recognized. They shook hands, slapped backs, exchanged a few vital statistics. He introduced me, simply, as Deb.

Then one of the guy's wives wandered over. And he very politely -- everyone in Iowa is incredibly well-mannered -- introduced her to his classmates. Including The Boyfriend "and his wife, Deb."

Polite smiles all around.

That happened several more times, until, finally, in a fit of rebellion or honesty, The Boyfriend piped up and said, "Actually, we're not married."

That seemed to throw everyone for a loop.

And then one of the guys nodded knowingly.

"Oh," he said. "Of course. I should have noticed on your name tags that you have different last names."

It did not seem like a good moment for me to point out that we'd still have different names even if we were married. Instead, we became an object of fascination.

"Well, are you dating?" someone asked, sounding a little like he didn't appreciate being duped.

We nodded, knowing what was coming next.

"About three years," we answered preemptively.

Less-polite smiles all around.

Vacation, all I ever wanted

There is nothing quite like an indignant Iowan: resolute as the shunning Amish, quiet as a shushing librarian but, still, unfailingly polite.

And despite being deeply offended by your life choices and worried for the eventual fate of your mortal soul, they will still feed you an outstanding meal, with lemon bars for dessert, and make sure that your plastic beer cup stays full.

I just stood back and watched, privately deciding that, if asked, I would identify myself as an incredibly well-preserved 38-year-old rather than a totally average-looking 30-year-old. Meanwhile, the men of the Class of 1984 did their work, demanding that The Boyfriend suck it up and join them in, um, wedded bliss.

For once, I had the night off from all that.

I got to sit around and feel lucky about not having baby-sitting issues. Since he was the one getting grilled about our relationship status, I was just the not-from-here chick, the one with the wacky job and the funny stories.

For once, nobody was making me feel like it was my job to bully him into commitment.

In Iowa, apparently, that's men's work.

The women just handle the lemon bars.

And they're wonderful.