That’s the name of a very short novel I just read, written by Elizabeth Berg.
I didn’t buy it for the author (I’d never heard of her), or the title, or the book cover. I bought it for its subject matter. A bunch of 50-somethings getting ready for their 40th and final high school reunion. Being a member of a high school class of ’70 (OK, it was the late great Framingham North), how could I resist?
The book was just OK. I suspected Berg was a so-called “women’s writer,” but that’s fine by me because I like women and I do wear makeup five days a week.
I suppose I went looking for myself in the book, but I didn’t find me. That’s because I was delightfully average. Never the best in anything, never the worst. Just plain average, which is not the stuff of novels.
My averageness made for a generally enjoyable four-year period of my life, which my class has celebrated with reunions every five years. I have been to each and every one, though I have yet to hear whether we’ll have a 40th.
The biggest mystery in the book, I thought, was why the 40th high school reunion was going to be the last. Why not 50? Why not beyond?
And the biggest mystery as I contemplated this milestone for my class was: 40 years already? Really?
It doesn’t seem possible. I’m too young.