My seventy-one year old mother just went to her 50th college reunion two months ago. She and my dad, who is approaching seventy-five, flew from California to New York for a weekend. A weekend with friends. A weekend with friends my mother either (a) hasn't seen in decades; or (b) sees maybe once each decade and exchanges Christmas cards and emails and phone calls with in between visits. Let me say it again: my seventy-one year old mother and my seventy-four year old father traveled three-thousand miles to see some old friends for a few days.
My parents travel all over the place. They go to the beach, they go to the East Coast, they travel to AAPT conventions all over the country, they go to Europe. They travel by car, rental car, train, foot, subway, metro, plane. I don't recall ever hearing about any bus rides, but it may just be that I haven't heard all their stories yet. They have a LOT of stories. And even some slides to go with some of the older stories, if you're free some evening next week.
Back to the college reunion. Or more precisely, a few days before they left for the college reunion. My mom sends me a text (yes, my seventy-one year old mom has an iPhone 4; she texts my kids and plays "Words with Friends" with my niece and nephew). The text reads something like this: "Do you know how to make a toga?"
Seriously. I thought this was a funny question to be coming from my mother, and honestly I thought she was joking around. She was not joking. She wanted to know if I remembered from my own college days how to make a toga. My mother seriously over-estimates my college days. I don't think I ever had occasion to wear a toga in college (sad, I know, but don't tell anyone; if my mom thinks I was that big a partier, there might be others who think so, too--let's let them have their dreams, ok?).
So no, I had never constructed nor worn a toga in college, but I did attend one toga party a few years out of college, and I did remember how to take a bed sheet and make it into a fairly passable looking Greek ensemble. I passed along my knowledge while inquiring as to why she needed this information.
Turns out that the all-girls college (at the time) that my mother attended was not only having a reunion for all of its graduated classes, but there would also be a parade of all the matriculates (is that a word?), as well as a party at which each graduating class would present a skit. Guess which class decided to do a skit in togas? The class of 1961. Rock on, class of '61! If you had asked me which class would be donning bed linens and baring shoulders, I'd have guessed closer to the class of 2001. And in all fairness, let me just say that the class of '61 CHOSE the toga theme--it was not impressed upon them. Okay, it might have been one person in the class of '61 that chose that theme and impressed it upon the rest of them, but still... if you still got your party panties (or togas) on fifty years out of college, I've got nothing but respect for you! To me that shows a lust for life that is both admirable and enviable.
All throughout that reunion weekend, my mom sent me pictures of the various activities. I saw the photo of her freshman dorm room. I saw the picture of all the classes walking in the reunion parade across the beautiful campus. I saw lovely shots of my mom with her classmates (my mom, just for the record, could have easily passed for someone at her 40th reunion). I kept waiting for the toga shot. I finally texted her--"Where's the one of you in a toga?" Her reply: "I already sent it. Didn't you get it?" Hmmm. Too convenient. Me: "No, can you send it again?" Her: "I'll try." I was beginning to get doubtful. Maybe my mom decided the toga was too much (or too little). Finally, a very grainy, dark shot, with my mom's head and what appeared to be one bare shoulder peeking through from behind a wall of bodies.
Okay, it wasn't Animal House or anything, but I'm proud of my mom for rising to the occasion. I'm sure not every member of the class eagerly embraced the Greek theme, and I'm not even positive that my mom eagerly embraced it, but she did embrace it. And she had fun. Three thousand miles from home. At the age of seventy-one. Among lifelong friends. In a toga.
I wanna be my mom when I grow up.
EDITOR'S NOTE: The companion piece, entitled "I Wanna Be My Dad When I Grow Up", is currently in the works and will be appearing soon.
