Thirty-something speaks
When did Homer Simpson join my peer group?
Mike Maddock

Whoever said men age better than women has not been to a high school reunion lately. I went with my wife to her 20th reunion this past weekend, and I felt like I was in a Rogaine commercial or an episode of the Biggest Loser. The vast majority of men in this class of 1987 had not aged well. The women, on the other hand, were doing just fine. I don't know if they had been living healthier or just visiting the plastic surgeons, but they definitely had paid more attention to themselves over the years. This made the men look that much older.

Of course, I'm no prize either. I've got enough misplaced hairs to keep multiple trimmer producing companies in business for many years, but the only time I've felt younger and thinner was when I was sitting in the cardiac waiting room for a nuclear stress test. Feeling young was the one positive of attending my wife's high school reunion. Other than that, I was just one of the guys the alumni kept looking at with that "Am I supposed to know you?" look on their faces.

There were exceptions to the deteriorating condition of the males in this class. Not every man in attendance looked like Homer Simpson. Some guys looked like they could strap on the pads and go a few quarters at running back. Others had plenty of hair appropriately located on their heads and not their ears, but many hadn't sniffed much exercise since 1987 and hadn't felt the need for a hairbrush in quite some time. These gentlemen, who were just a year ahead of me in high school, looked more like my old professors than my peers. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. I felt like the kid who used to visit my dad at his office surrounded by old guys with jobs, mortgage payments, and gray hair. The only problem was now I was one of those old guys too.

How could people who looked older than my dad be in my age bracket? Throughout the evening I kept thinking that a Corvette salesman and gold digging hottie could do very well with this crowd if they could be heard over the Bangles and Kajagoogoo blaring from the loud speakers.

I found another reason to be depressed surrounded by this particular class of 1987. Despite the receding hairlines and jiggly physiques, many of these guys were very impressive. A couple were Hollywood producers, several were doctors, many were business owners, and one was an appointee of President Bush. I could have had all the golden blonde hair in the world and done 100 sit- ups a day and still not been that impressive. So I focused on how old they looked. It made me feel better.

My reunion should be coming up soon. I can only hope some husband who graduated in 1989 from another school doesn't show up to pass judgment on me. If he's bald, overweight, starts drooling and daydreaming at the mere mention of the word doughnut, and says, "Doh!" a lot, then he's welcome. Otherwise, his wife needs to keep him at home with the kids. I already feel old enough.