It’s official: the details are all locked for the Palo Alto High School Class of 1997 Ten Year Reunion.

Therefore, it’s also official: I’m old.

In truth, I probably wouldn’t be attending the reunion, except that, as student body president my senior year, it’s apparently my job to plan it. I didn’t realize this when I ran for the office, didn’t get the memo until just this year, which is probably why our class never had a five year reunion.

But, this time, for the ten-year mark, we are. Not some big event in the gym with balloons and streamers and nametags and speeches, but an evening at a Palo Alto bar the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Lower key, it seemed, might be more likely to get people to actually show up.

And, by now, more than a hundred of my classmates have RSVP’ed. I’m curious to see how we look as a bunch by now – how much hair lost, how much weight gained. At least two people will be bringing small kids, and many more their husbands, wives and significant others.

Jess, wisely, will instead be visiting her younger sister, abroad for the semester in Copenhagen, so she’ll be spared. So I’ll be facing things solo – and, more to the point, very drunk.