To my surprise, I actually survived my fifth-year college reunion. To say that I did not want anything to do with the reunion understates the case rather dramatically; in fact, I actively dreaded this gathering of my former classmates. In the weeks preceding the reunion, I lay in my bed at night, trying to devise a way to expose myself to viral meningitis so that I wouldn’t have to go, and the day of our departure, I clung to the doorjamb and wailed, “Nooooooo,” and the Biscuit had to pry my fingers off one by one and tow me along behind him to the train station, and the towing process took a while, because in addition to beginning a rigorous workout regime six full months beforehand, shaping my eyebrows, giving myself a full pedicure to show off my new shoes, and otherwise transforming myself into a sleek idol of sensuality, the better to drive a metaphorical stake through the heart of at least one of my ex-boyfriends, and inspire him to fall to his knees and mourn aloud his decision to crumple me up and toss me aside in the manner of a damp Kleenex, especially since the intervening years robbed him of most of his muscle tone and several inches of his hairline – in addition to these ablutions of vanity performed in advance, I had also packed every single cosmetic item I owned, including a couple of ill-advised lip glosses dating from junior high school, as well as seventeen changes of clothes, for a trip that would last less than two days. Then we got on the train, and the Biscuit leafed through a back issue of “The Onion” while I stared out the window and thought up things to say when people asked me about my career, things like “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you” and “oh, you know – another day, another IPO” and “well, I think my new parole officer has something lined up for me.”

Of course, in the end, I’d gotten my knickers in a twist for no reason. I didn’t have a fabulous time, but I didn’t have to jam an ice pick into my eye for relief, either. Most importantly, I gleaned a few essential bits of knowledge from the experience that will help me deal with future reunions, and I’ve compiled a handy clip-ën’-save so that any reader faced with the terrifying prospect of his or her own reunion can benefit from my experience. I hope the handy “dos and don’ts” format helps.

DO cultivate a thousand-yard stare. City dwellers will have already perfected the art of ignoring annoying things and people in the foreground of their field of vision, an invaluable skill at a reunion. Think back if you will to the “leeches” of your acquaintance – the pitiable folk who, once they have made even the most glancing of eye contact, will initiate an excruciating conversation and will then refuse to let it end, forcing you to hide in the bathroom or pretend to spot a long-lost friend in order to escape. The thousand-yard stare allows you to avoid encounters of this type.

DON’T imagine that people will have changed much. Minor physical alterations aside, people will have stayed pretty much the same. The frat boys will still wear stained shorts and grimy white baseball hats, and they will still bulldoze through the crowd beer-belly-first and slop their Bud Lights down your back and not apologize, because if a frat boy acts polite, his friends will call him a “skirt.” The social x-rays will still wear the very latest thing and toss their hair more often than they need to. The Eurocrats will still stand in a boisterous circle and chatter at each other in French, and they will still bemoan the poor quality of American beer and American bread and American film, even though they have now lived in the States for nearly ten years and should have gotten well over it already.

DO rehearse how to describe what you do for a living, as well as where you live and your marital status, in twenty-five words or less. A concise, to-the-point summary serves you best, because you will have to repeat this information hundreds of times. Anyone wanting to know more will ask.

DON’T expect anyone to ask.

DO tell everyone how wonderful, fantastic, great, super, and beautiful they look. If this means you have to lie like a rug, say it anyway. It makes them feel good, and then they say it to you, and then you feel good.

DON’T get offended by flagrant insincerity. You will have to lay it on thick yourself, more than a few times, so just feel grateful that they made the effort and leave it at that.

DO have a “wing man.” No matter how nimble your conversational skills, you will get trapped by the groper, or the close talker, or the woman who still hates you for allegedly flirting with her boyfriend about a thousand years ago and has finally gotten trashed enough to get up in your face, or the tool who views any social gathering as a networking opportunity. Extricating yourself from these situations often requires a partner, so prior to plunging into the crowd, agree on a distress signal with your friends or your honey so that you can rescue each other.

DON’T count on the reunion committee to have arranged for decent food or entertainment. You’d think, over the course of human evolution, that someone might have figured out how to prepare palatable chicken dishes for large groups of people; you’d also think that inebriated twentysomethings would eventually tire of hearing a washed-up bar mitzvah band’s rendition of “Love Shack.” In both cases, you would have to think again. You will probably have no choice but to tolerate the embarrassingly non-funky keyboard plonking that passes for “Mony Mony,” but unless you enjoy overcooked and underseasoned chicken cutlets and cheesecake with the consistency of wet toilet paper, I suggest making other dining arrangements.

DO spend a little time with the older alumni. I guarantee that they will amaze and delight. The fiftieth reunion tent had a sweet swing band and an open bar, and I didn’t see any cell phones or a single pair of cargo pants anywhere in sight. We got booted in short order for not having enough wrinkles, but the five minutes we spent there relaxed me immeasurably. The next day, at the alumni parade, a gentleman from the class of 1922 not only walked the entire parade route but booked down it so fast that the whippersnappers carrying his class banner had a job to keep up with him.

DON’T be afraid to say, either aloud or to yourself, “Whatever.” I moaned and groaned and didn’t want to go, but once I got to the reunion, I realized that I didn’t really give a crap what most of these people thought of me. One guy told me, in all seriousness, “Most writers on the Web can’t cut it in print.” Whatever. Another guy asked me if I would have slept with him if he’d asked me out in college. Whatever. A lot of my classmates care very deeply about making the most money and having the most exalted title and marrying the best-looking guy or girl, blah blah blah fishcakes, and they get all competitive and resentful about it, and Ernie and I would stand in line for the bathroom and overhear women bitching to each other about how they couldn’t believe Such-And-So got such-and-such job, or why would anyone want to marry This-And-Such, and we would just look at each other and mouth the word “whatever.” See, I dreaded the reunion for that very reason – I know how people judge other people, and the judgment bugged me, and the possibility that they would judge me wanting also bugged me, and finally, it bugged me that I cared about anyone judging me in the second place. Once I dealt with that, I sort of thought to myself, “Well, whatever,” and the dread evaporated, and I could take the weekend for what it was – a chance to see old friends from faraway places, stay up late reminiscing, and stock up on making-fun-of-people fuel for the next five years.

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