This upcoming weekend, I'll be headed back to my hometown for my 20th high school reunion.
When I write, "my hometown", it reads all quaint and charming-like, doesn't it? In fact, my hometown is Houston which is not at all quaint but gigantic and gives me heart-attacks whenever I drive in it. To be more exact - and trying with all my might to not end a sentence with a preposition - I'm actually from Spring. Back in the day, it was a large suburb just outside the city limits where the effects of too much hairspray and acid washed jeans on the Ozone Layer where largely ignored.
Spring - where I got my first moped, my biggest perm, and my most beautiful Laura Ashley dress with the tiny flowers and giant white collar.
Oh, don't be coy with me, you know the one.
I wore it with pantyhose and white flats.
Totally rocked it.
On a side (and truly encouraging note) a dear church in Northern Ireland sends students over each summer to intern-ish at Mercy Street. They stay with the Smiths and are incredibly delightful.
Anyway, this Spring's intern is Irish Jonny and he is dear and loves Jesus and, if he would just stay a little longer, I'm sure I could find him a charming young lassie with whom he could share his love of football (soccer) and inner-city ministry.
The other day, I was telling him I had my reunion this weekend and he said in his precious accent, "Melissa, what year did ye graduate?"
Oh, yeah? I was born in 1991.
Remember when I used the word precious? I totally take that back.
In preparation for my reunion, I thought it would be a great idea to take all my kids, Irish Jonny, and his friend Glenn with me to the mall so I could look for the ever elusive pair of perfectly fitting, yet affordable, white jeans. Those words make up the oxymoron that became our great fool's errand. And because we, as a rule, rise to the challenge and then are easily distracted, we did practically everything but look for white jeans. We perused every athletic shoe store, ran down the 'up' escalator, and begged samples from the marginalized Godiva chocolate clerk who was carefully filling chocolate tarts with berries and sugary goodness. Poor guy. Irish Jonny and Glen insisted the chocolate they had in Ireland was so fabulous compared to our suckish variety.
"Really? Have you tried a Peanut M&M?"
They scoffed at me and my blind love of substandard chocolate which, by the way, might explain my inability to find well-fitting white jeans.
It might also explain my love of voluminous Laura Ashley frocks. Back in the day.