Grace's musings on her upcoming 10-year high school reunion the other day spurred me to think about my own a bit. My reunion is quite a bit further off than hers, given the fact that I'm not quite two years out of high school, but that distance leaves me some room for fantasy...

Everyone dreams of coming back to their reunion and wow-ing their former classmates, all of whom are now undoubtedly slick used car salesmen or housewives in muumuus, but my plots have always tended towards the slightly more complex: I've always wanted to sweep in, tall and slender, with dark glassess, a black form-fitting forties-style suit, and a big black hat to top it off. While my former classmates distracted themselves with attempts to decipher my identity, I'd subtly drop hints of colorful stories about my time spent as a private agent on the Continent and my current position with the United Nations. Just as they began to realize who I was, I'd be whisked away from the gymanasium of W_______ South High School in order to take care of more pressing business.

After seeing Grosse Point Blank last year, though, my fantasy altered a smidgen. Perhaps it'd be yet more satisfying simply to disappear for ten years, only to come back to my hometown and be utterly secretive about what I'd been up to. Of course, wearing all black is an integral part of that fantasy, as well. What is it about black, anyway, that is so mysterious? Wouldn't it be wacky if lemon yellow was commonly regarded as a sure sign of mystery? Secret agents would all look like third graders en route to school on a stormy day, and there would likely be a run on yellow rain slickers.

Listening to: Miles Davis, Sketches of Spain