Tonight, I sauntered in to a bar by my home.
I know the bar and they know me: I’m local.
An event was going on and I couldn’t get in. The place was rented-out for the next few hours: it was a 10 year highschool reunion.
Within seconds, I had formulated the plan for “Operation Promdate.”
It is Saturday night, I’m bored, and this seemed like a fun challenge:
I will crash a highschool reunion.
I went home and in 15 minutes I showered, shaved, and came back in a sportcoat and an almost ironed shirt. Because I dressed the part, no one at the reunion suspected that I was an interloper and within minutes I had a cover story, an official name tag, and even a fake wife (a fake “baby mama”): a lovely alumnus, Brigette, agreed to be my co-conspirator. We were not married (”because we will not get married until gay marriage is also legal”) and we had a 23 month old daughter named “Canada” (we agreed to go the way of celebrity baby names, and it was either “Canada” or “Windsock”). When you’re going to be full of shit, you have to have the obscure details worked-out.
I couldn’t actually fake having gone to school with these people, though it was tempting to try. Instead, I was Brigette’s “baby daddy” brought along for the event - I mingled and made small talk with the real alumni and had a blast.
I never had a highschool reunion of my own: the lame-ass alternative education school I went to never did reunions. So, this was the closest I’ve ever gotten to a highschool reunion. And even though it wasn’t mine, it was a great reunion. It was the best of both worlds: I went to a highschool reunion, yet I didn’t have to contend with any of the annoying people I went to highschool with.
I hope to someday attend a wedding in the same way: “Operation Second Cousin.”

Brigette: my fake “baby mama.”