Can't Find Me

Yes, I'm having trouble with aging.
As if I wanted to see them,
a friend emailed me pics of my, gulp, 15th HS reunion.

Nearly everyone looked so middle-aged and, well, round.
Rounder than what I remembered.
Ok, bloated. That's the word. I'm so sorry.
But it's true. I'm not talking BMI either. More than just
beer guts--a kindof stuck-on-the-self type of bloatedness
that makes the skin tight and shiney . . .

Even MT.

MT and I met in the 4th grade.
[Please forgive me if I've told you this before.]
He was a fairly hot 4th grader. Although not all the girls thought so.
I thought his bowl cut made him look extremely intelligent.

We competed in everything. Test scores, hand writing, art projects.
During recess, we'd get books on the planets and make dioramas.
We started a rock collection--well, I think I started it.
We were fascinated with science.
To my memory, I was Connect Four champ.

It all changed when he confessed to me that
he could see down Julie's blouse
when she leaned over and that she had boobs.
He adored her.

I, on the other hand, didn't really get breasts until the 6th grade.
My mother bought me an over-sized padded bra
that became quite lumpy in the wash.

MT, and his henchmen by that point, insisted
that I was stuffing.

"I don't! Want me to take you in the restroom
and prove that I don't?!"

"Yes!" was the immediate answer. Of course I wanted to;
by 6th grade, I understood that he was my soul mate.

7th and 8th grade was spent in torment and longing.
MT didn't really speak to me for a couple years,
not until he wanted my help in drawing up
plans for Cindy Z's dream house on graph paper.
The tramp.

8th grade also saw the ultimate moment of embarrassment,
that even now I cannot face in writing,
especially public writing. Let's just say,
it involved a misplaced hair.
And that was the end of MT.

We were strangers in HS.

Now, he comes looking for me at our 15th reunion.
From London.
A PhD geologist working for BP.
I know he wants me.

But I didn't show.