Manolo says, it is Monday and you are back at your desk after the very tiring weekend of nostalgia and regret, the weekend of your 25th college reunion.
It was wonderful to see all of your old friends and acquaintances, and to note, with both satisfaction and alarm, how they have have become middle aged peoples, with gray hairs, spreading bellies, and enough wrinkly crows feets to constitute the murder.
Although your college boyfriend, the aspiring film director who had majored in pot smoking and ultimate frisbee, looked better than ever, like the bronzed Greek god — tall, lean, and tanned, with the full head of beautiful, naturally highlighted, wavy hair — the consequence of spending most of his days in the water off of Point Dume (and his evenings parking cars at the fancy Italian restaurant off of Wilshire Boulevard).
“I’d describe myself as an independent filmmaker and producer,” he said, while Gary, your husband, flirted with the young, porn-starish blond who accompanied your ex. “I’ve got a couple things in development, and my latest short is up is up to 7,100 hits on YouTube.”
Of course, much more disturbing was the appearance of the skinny Pakistani boy, Nayyar, who had latched onto you during your senior year, utterly besotted.
He was sweet in that unworldly, innocent, geeky way–tall and skinny with the prominent nose and wild hair. But, because he was harmless, you never had the heart to tell him to get lost, even as he shadowed you from class to lunch to class, never taking the not so subtle hints that he should go away for the few minutes. (At graduation, when you met his parents, you realized that he had been describing you to them as his “special friend” and that they had expected, with some alarm, that the proposal would follow. )
But there he was at the reunion, in his bespoke Saville Row suit, looking like 743 million dollars (according to Forbes), with homes in London, Singapore, New York, and Gastaad, and his own very successful international equities hedge fund. He had filled out marvelously, become more refined and better looking, and was now objectively hunky, a testament to the powers of expensive tailors, barbers, and personal trainers. And look at his wife! She could be Padma Lakhsmi’s younger, better-looking, more cultured sister.
Naturally, Nayyar and his wife were seated at the same table with you and Gary during the gala dinner, which, oddly turned out to be great fun. The wife was charmingly funny and smart, and Gary, the hale-fellow everyman, bonded with Nayyar over the lengthy discussion of riding mowers.
“Was Nayyar the fellow you and your sister call the ‘Wacky Pak’?” Gary asked, later that night in the hotel, “He doesn’t seem very wacky.”
And now this morning, back at desk, all you can think about were the shoes on Nayyar’s wife’s beautifully elegant feet.. Moira Cutout Patent Pumps from Christian Louboutin!