A Word From the Weiss

        This being summer at last, I would like nothing more than to blabber on breathlessly about spending last weekend at my brother’s beach house on tranquil Fire Island, or about my daughter’s current excursion on Birthright (the incredible program that sends Jewish youth ages 18 to 26 to Israel for 10 days... for free). And that’s what I would do, were it not for an ugly, scary word that somehow got in the way.
        I am referring to a six-letter word that is one of the most frightening known to man because it evokes another six-letter word that is the scariest word known to man.
        Let’s not talk about the second one. I even hesitate to say the one that got in the way.
        Biopsy.
        I had one last Wednesday. The results were due on Monday. And so, as I think you'll understand, no matter how much I kept trying to relax and enjoy my family last weekend, or to fret over my daughter’s packing travails and the safe arrival of her transatlantic flight,  there was a big, black UFO (unidentified fear-inducing object) hovering in my mind at all times.
        My misadventures in Medical Purgatory began last winter when, during my annual physical, my internist poked around the center of my neck and asked me to swallow. “Oh, look, you’ve got a nodule in your thyroid,” he observed nonchalantly. Never having noticed anything unusual in there, I found this to be surprising news.
        To my added surprise, he proceeded to evince no concern about this condition whatsoever. Were I writing a magazine article and not a blog, this would be the part where I'd explain why he wasn't concerned, then provide all sorts of useful information highlighted by bullets. Suffice it to say that a high percentage of people have nodules in their thyroids, and yesterday on Today they said that women are 12 times more likely to be afflicted than men. Yet roughly 90 percent of thyroid nodules tend to be benign. Thus my doctor's disinterest and, for many months, mine.
        A few weeks ago, though, I began to detect a strange tingling in my neck, particularly after I ate. To be honest, I couldn’t tell after awhile whether these sensations were occurring spontaneously or being provoked by my probing the area repeatedly, trying to find the mysterious lump and detect what the heck was going on in there. When these strange symptoms failed to subside in time, though, I decided to go back to the doctor.
        But wait. For the moment, what I’d really like to do is go back to Fire Island.
             
        My older brother bought a house in this secluded beach community off the coast of Long Island last year, after being a longtime summer renter. As a highly successful criminal defense attorney, Joel had never exactly been known for having a gentle, laid-back disposition. But since starting to pass most of his fair-weather weekends there, his natural crustiness and frequent irascibility seemed to have washed away into the frothy waves of Long Island Sound.
        “Uncle Joelly,” as my kids fondly call him, and his wonderful wife Karen had hosted us for several weekends last summer, and all were so thoroughly enjoyable that we couldn't wait to return. It was particularly appealing to be invited for last weekend, though. My son Aidan lives in Manhattan and could easily hop a train out and meet us to celebrate both Father’s Day and my husband’s birthday, which fell early last week. Meanwhile, while driving back on Sunday night, we'd be able to deposit our daughter at JFK, where she was staying at a hotel with a friend prior to their flying out early Monday.
        The only drawback was that this required Allegra to finish packing for Israel several days in advance. This, of course, might also be seen as a big plus. Allegra has never been known to be either decisive or close to a light packer (not to cast any aspersions, since I’m guilty of both charges myself). Like many people, she also can be a bit of a procrastinator when it comes to things she has little desire to do. Left to her own devices, she might have put off the task long enough to risk missing not just her plane, but the entire ten days.
        Complicating her efforts was a desire to pare the belongings she'd be lugging around down to a bare minimum. For one thing, there presumably was no need to primp for the Promised Land. For another, the friend who was joining her was very decisive and a very light packer, and she might ridicule Allegra mercilessly if she showed up with a steamer trunk full of clothes.
        And so I watched sympathetically as she kept eliminating cherished items that she'd envisioned herself wearing while climbing Masada or touring Tel Aviv. I also was distressed to hear a loud crash after I left her room and later discover that she'd dropped another cherished item, a blue ceramic plaque that had been sitting in there for years, cracking it in two. “Celebrate life,” it had read. I'm not just superstitious. I'm super-superstitious. This was a bad omen, I thought.
        Yet finally she condensed everything into a small overnight bag, which would have to suffice for three weeks in three different locales. After Israel, the girls planned to visit Istanbul. Then we hoped to join Allegra for a family vacation to Italy. This was a trip I'd been touting to everyone for ages, but had never actually made any reservations for because of my secret, still unresolved health issues. Would we actually be able to go? Only my doctor could say for sure.

        When I returned to see him, he seemed a little dismissive of my concerns, and even asked if my discomfort might be addressed by simply taking Tylenol. Still, he sent me for both blood work and an ultrasound.
        The blood work showed that my thyroid was functioning normally. The ultrasound was not as encouraging. It indicated that there were actually two nodules, and one of them had irregular edges, evidently not a good thing. And so the dreaded biopsy was scheduled.
        This was a fine-needle biopsy, a relatively minor procedure performed under local anesthetic. Both my cousin, who’s had several of these, and my doctor assured me that this would not be terribly onerous or painful. Both my cousin and my doctor lied. I don’t really want to discuss the sensation of having several needles plunged into my throat while I was fully awake, even with the benefit of an injection of Lidocaine, which proved to be a literal pain in the neck itself. Suffice it to say that Tylenol was useless. Ditto Ibuprofen. I was in enough discomfort for the rest of that week to wonder if Fire Island was do-able.
        But we all remained determined to go. So it was disappointing to wake up on Friday morning to impending thunderstorms. My brother proposed that he continue monitoring the forecast, and if it didn’t improve soon then we join him for dinner at his main residence, sleep over and leave for the beach in the morning.
        He called back shortly before noon to confirm Plan B. It was just as well. Allegra was still packing. She also was agonizing over what to use as a carry-on. Her lime green tote bag, which boasted a sturdy zipper but was large and clunky? Or a funky canvas shoulder bag that was easy to carry, but wide open at the top?
        Where, or where are the ideal options in life? Why must almost everything be a compromise, a choice between boring but built for the long haul, or funky but defective? 
        Driving west on I-84, we watched the sun coyly sashay out and the temperatures flirt with 80 degrees. I phoned my brother to suggest he reconsider. But he always has been the resolute one between us. I waffle and waver, and am always willing to reassess and keep changing course until the very last minute. He has the certitude to make a firm decision, then stick to it, no matter what.
        As it turned out, there was no "what." He’d called it right. Swarthy clouds soon brought down the curtain on the sun's cameo appearance. A fiendish storm took center stage for the rest of the day and night. So we had a restful, fabulous dinner at his home, then hopped a ferry early the next morning.
        My brother’s Fire Island house is located in a sedate section known as Lonelyville, but he calls the place “magic,” and I can see why. Strolling endless stretches of pristine sand, I could sense much of my angst take flight with the gulls gliding over the sea. Still, the risks of my situation flooded my mind, rocking my sense of equilibrium as if it were a light dinghy pitching to and fro in a gale. When we gathered for cocktails on the upper deck of his cottage at dusk, I raised my gin and tonic for a hearty group toast, but felt little effervescence inside.
        When we joined a crowd at the public dock at sunset to watch a magnificent, blazing orb plummet gracefully into the farthest reaches of the sea, I swooned. Yet I couldn’t help wondering how many more such sunsets I might live to see.
       The moment I awakened on Sunday, the dreadful news I might receive the next day smacked me in the face. It was Father’s Day, and I strove mightily not to let the undercurrents in my mind undermine anyone else's good mood.
        But as earnestly as I tried, anxiety continued to lap up relentlessly against my resolve. As I snapped pictures of my kids lolling on the beach, I couldn’t help thinking about how much in flux their lives still were. At 24 and 21, they were no longer children. But I had no doubt -- no doubt at all -- that they still needed me.
        My kids needed me, and I, in turn, still needed to be there for them both. But how much longer would I?
        I wasn’t being melodramatic, just facing the facts. OK, maybe I didn’t know all the facts. I did know that there were several different kinds of thyroid you-know-what, and most of these had a relatively good prognosis. Only one variety was deemed untreatable. But what if that was the one burgeoning inside me? I couldn’t imagine not living to attend my children’s weddings someday, to get to be a grandmother to their own children, or witness the wonderful things they each still hoped to achieve. Yet now those dreams seemed to be slipping out of reach like fine, white sand sifting through my toes.
        Cars are banned from Fire Island, and discontent should be as well. I kept trying to banish maudlin thoughts and savor the joys of being not only still alive but ensconced in a slice of paradise. But as we sped back to shore on the ferry that evening, I couldn’t help wondering if I’d ever return to that blissful haven again. And when my brother wrapped me in his arms to say goodbye, whispering that he loved me and knew I’d be fine, my composure crumbled like a sandcastle succumbing to high tide.
        When we reached Allegra's hotel, she was still debating the bag dilemma. She brought the green tote in, then returned to the car for the other one instead. And I thought, I’m the source of all that indecision. I'm a breeder of self-doubt and uncertainty, rarely confident about what to do. But there was one thing of which I was certain. She was flying off the next morning, and I didn’t want to ruin her trip. How could I relay horrific news to her while she was so far away from home?
        And yet, considering how life too often works out, it seemed almost inevitable that terrible news would arrive just after she left. What would I tell her? Should I simply lie? Wouldn't the truth be instantly apparent when we canceled our trip?
        I slept fitfully that night and awakened truly petrified. Reluctant to wait a moment longer, I phoned the doctor’s office before 9 and asked to make an appointment for that day, assuming that he might want to discuss the results in person. The woman who answered confirmed that my test results were sitting there, but said that the doctor wasn’t in yet and someone would call me back.
        Then hours went by, and no one did.
        I sat in my living room throughout the day, too paralyzed with worry to do a thing -- read, write or even eat. The only calls I received were from my husband, brother, son and daughter (who phoned prior to takeoff hoping for some news). The other three checked in repeatedly as the hours ticked by, sounding anxious despite their continued assurances that everything would be fine.
        I could have phoned the doctor again, but didn't want to make a pest of myself. My husband happened to have an appointment of his own with another physician in the office that afternoon, and he inquired about my situation. He was told that my doctor had needed to go out briefly, but he would return soon and call me. He didn’t, though.
        Finally, just before 5:30, the phone rang and a nurse told me that they doctor had reviewed my results and wanted to see me in his office at 11:45 the next day. Hearing that, I began to cry. I couldn’t believe my ears. It wasn't just that I'd have to endure yet another night of uncertainty. All I could surmise was that the news was so horrible that it couldn’t be relayed over the phone.
        I pleaded with this woman to please, please tell me something, anything. But she just kept repeating what she’d already said. Sobbing openly, I begged her to have the doctor phone me himself that night. She agreed to relay the message. But he never called.
        
        So I prepared myself for another unnerving, wakeful night. But having worn myself out with worry, I drifted into a deep sleep. The next thing I knew, it was morning... and the start of a very different day.
        I sat up in bed, and I suddenly thought: Wait a second. What have I been thinking? When did I become such a fragile flower, a leaf trembling in the wind, a simpering wimp? I’m not a weak, suffering creature about to keel over. Other than for this recent blip, I’m pretty much a picture of perfect health. I maintain a normal weight. I take no medications. I’m relatively active and generally brimming with energy. And even if this thing turned out to be really bad, I was an ideal candidate to recover.
        I thought back to the many times that my mother had told me throughout her long battle with breast cancer that she was going to fight it and survive and be a role model for her children and mine. So what if she hadn’t ultimately prevailed? I, too, was going to fight, if necessary. I was going to be a role model who won.
        As my husband drove me to the doctor’s office, I maintained my steely composure. The doctor kept us waiting for nearly an hour. But at last he walked in and revealed the results… which, despite my earlier fears, were far from dire.
        How dire could they be when they weren’t remotely conclusive?
        A relatively small percentage of the cells collected had been classified as “atypical.” This could simply indicate inflammation, my doctor allowed, but it also might be much more serious. Looking grave, he urged me to undergo another, far more invasive biopsy and then, regardless of the outcome, consider having my thyroid removed entirely. Otherwise, I might need to continue having it monitored every six to twelve months with unsavory tests throughout my life. Why not just get it over with and take synthetic hormones to regulate my metabolism?
         In my newfound unflappability, I  hesitated to accept his grim admonitions. He might be right. Then again, he might not. Weren't there any less drastic diagnostic measures to try? I wasn't eager to submit to unnecessary procedures. I also wanted to get a second, more expert opinion.
        I remained far from appeased by his perfunctory apology about the night before, which he essentially shrugged off, noting that he hadn't received my message until that morning. Even so, to his credit, he managed to secure me an appointment with a specialist only two days later.
        This fellow, a respected endocrinologist, was much less alarmed about my prognosis and far more reassuring. He said it was actually in my favor to have multiple nodules -- a single one is considered more suspicious -- and believed the strong likelihood was that there was no malignancy. He referred me to a surgeon to consider having the nodules removed, just to be sure. But even if worse came to worst, the prospects for a full recovery were 98 to 99 percent.
        "You're going to live a long, happy life," he declared in a very convincing way.
        I, for one, am convinced.
        
        I don’t blame myself for having succumbed to panic and jumped to alarmist conclusions. But I’m ready to move forward now. I want to be there for my children, and will do whatever is necessary to assure that this happens. Then again, I'd like to keep all of my original parts, if possible, for as long as possible.
        It occurred to me yesterday, soon after I'd perked up and come to my senses, that I had somehow started down an unfortunate and unintended path. Having cared for both my parents through terminal illnesses, I know what life is like when you enter the health system and your days begin to revolve around medical visits and procedures. But I've always been the caretaker. I'm not ready to be relegated to the role of needy patient just yet.
        I greatly admire my brother’s certitude and decisiveness, and his ability to swiftly choose a course of action and then stick with it, no matter what. I often wish I were more like him. But sometimes it’s also good to be able to turn on a dime.
        Once, while we were visiting Fire Island last summer, his daughter, my sweet niece Suzannah, accidentally boarded the wrong ferry and ended up in a distant town. (And even then, her newly mellowed-out dad failed to become irate.) Now, I thought to myself, I too accidentally had gotten onto a wrong ferry – a dark boat headed for a destination to which I definitely did not want to go. Last week, I was sitting on that ferry, and it was about to sail, but there was still time to get off.
        Maybe I was crazy, and maybe at some point soon I’d have to board it again. But for now, all I wanted was to go back to my normal life. Better yet, I wanted to go to Italy. So, excuse me, and excuse my language, but I was getting the f--k off.
        And so I did. I got off the ferry to fear. I simmered down and stopped freaking out. At that moment, I suddenly grew ravenous, having barely eaten in days. So I drove to the nearest Whole Foods and bought almost everything in sight.
        Then I came home, glued my daughter’s broken plaque back together again, and started looking at flights to Italy.
        Perhaps things will take yet another turn as time goes on. But for now I’m feeling hearty and hopeful. Not to mention defiant. So, for the moment, all I want to worry about is packing. I want to bring everything. Beautiful summer dresses. Short shorts and slacks. As well as Capri pants… to actually wear on the gorgeous Isle of Capri! Sorry, everyone, I know I should pare down, but I may actually bring a steamer trunk full of options. I can picture myself wearing them all. Toto, we’re not in Health Purgatory anymore. There’s no place like Rome. I may even never come back. So stay tuned for my new site: NiceJewishItalianMom.com.

A Word From the Weiss

        I would like to say that I’m one of those selfless people who think only of others, but the truth is that the others I mostly think of are my children. Friends are also a top priority, and I’d gladly go out of my way to help almost any stranger on the street. Yet when it comes to sublimating my own needs and desires to please my significant other – Mr. Nice Jewish Mom – well, as he’d probably be the first to tell you… not so much.
        OK, let’s be perfectly honest. Not at all.
        So when he asked me to join him for his 45th college reunion over Memorial Day Weekend, my initial reaction was somewhere between an audibly begrudging “Ugh! Sure, if you really want to go,” and “No! Sorry! Just shoot me now!”
        For one thing, I’m not outgoing by nature. I often find it taxing to gab at length with good friends. To sustain prolonged chitchat with strangers? For several days? That’s not just taxing, it’s torture. (Just waterboard me now.)
        For another, I knew exactly what to expect from his Princeton University reunions. I’d already attended two of them, and as far as I was concerned, that was two too many.
        To my enormous relief, he quickly decided to forego these festivities when he learned that attending the event, including three days of meals, entertainment and various other activities, would set us back $750 exclusive of hotel accommodations.
        My pass to get out of hell free flew out the window when we got wind that our son would actually be performing there (at the reunion, that is). Aidan has long played the bari saxophone in a Benny Goodman-style swing band every Wednesday night in New York. This band originated at Princeton more than 50 years ago and still performs there regularly. The class of 1955 had hired them to play at a dinner dance last Friday night.
        Never mind that I was born in 1955, and everyone there would presumably be 21 years my senior. I could tell my husband was still dying to attend, and this factor easily sweetened the deal.
        He negotiated a reduced rate for us to attend the reunion for only one night and day. He also persuaded our daughter, who’d be moving home from college the night before we left, to accompany us. And suddenly I found myself willing to renegotiate too.
        And yet I still spent much of the next two weeks moaning, groaning, whining, kvetching, and barely concealing my dread. And that was before I realized that I would spend the four days following my daughter’s graduation in Boston helping her pack up all her belongings, then arrive home utterly exhausted the night before we left. The last thing I wanted to do at that point was unpack, repack, and drive five hours south in heavy holiday weekend traffic.
        But my husband had already shelled out hundreds of dollars for the ordeal – I mean privilege. So I moaned, groaned, kvetched a whole lot more, repacked, and then got in the car.
        We arrived a steamy and emotionally stormy five hours later, just in time for the dinner.
        Having been before, I knew the drill. Everyone from the alumni to every single family member in tow would be decked out from head to toe in the school colors, black and orange. Since this palette derived from the school’s mascot, there would be a jungle of tiger stripes on view as well, thanks to colorful costumes issued at reunions past. My husband, in fact, upon exiting the car, popped the trunk and slipped on a hideous, Hawaiian-style shirt that I hadn’t laid eyes on since the 40th reunion, five years ago.
        No doubt I had a matching one buried somewhere. And I do mean buried. Fortunately, while foraging in my closet, I’d come across a far more appealing option -- a cocktail dress in an abstract black-and-white animal print with a wide orange band at the hem and just below the bodice. Upon arrival, I found myself the envy of many a woman there, besieged by queries as to where on earth I’d found it. This helped to melt my icy demeanor at once. Well, at least a little.
        Also attracting attention was another wife who had shown great sartorial ingenuity. As she explained to me giddily twice in quick succession -- having preceded us to the cocktail party by an hour and perhaps three martinis -- she’d been obliged to improvise because she’d put on a little weight lately and had left her “shaper” at home. Presumably, the outfit she’d brought to wear wouldn’t close. So she'd fastened the accessory issued to all female attendees this year, a voluminous tiger-print scarf, just below her waist. Instant skirt. And Princeton fashion history had been made.
        “What's a shaper?” I demanded, after duly admiring her resourcefulness, “and where the heck can I get one?”
        But there was no time to stand around discussing ladies’ lingerie, nor to linger over the last remaining Swedish meatballs. We were hustled into a cavernous dining hall. Dinner was served.
        Despite my husband’s enduring attraction to his alma mater, in candid moments he often admitted to having reservations about his time there. One of his chief gripes was about the archaic homogeneity of the student body. Back in his day, 1962-66, there were not only no women whatsoever enrolled, but also very few Jews. Many of his preppy and decidedly Gentile classmates had openly treated him as a social misfit and something of an oddball. At times, memories of their bald contempt still stung.
        One of the reunion organizers, Tiny Morgan, with whom we had our picture snapped (and who, as you can see, is far from what his nickname might suggest), had gone so far as to give him an ersatz award at graduation, pronouncing him Least Likely to Succeed.
        So I braced myself to be seated with a bunch of contemptuous snobs. To my surprise, we found ourselves instead facing our good friend Jay Lagemann, a former classmate of my husband's, and an immensely likable couple from Massachusetts. The husband, Dan, was a publisher. The wife, Suzanne, was a food writer who had penned several books and now jars and markets her own pasta sauce at www.heirloomtomatosauceco.com. Both were nice, Jewish, and couldn’t have been friendlier or more simpatico.
        Another couple they knew soon joined us. That husband was also an author and turned out to be a regular contributor to Field & Stream, where I’d had my first job in publishing, as an editorial assistant years ago. We’d never met, but knew many people in common. Although his wife was blonde, bubbly, and clearly not a landsman – she looked like she belonged in Lilly Pulitzer, if Lilly came in orange and black, not just pink and green – I worried that she and the other woman might resent me. Not that I fancy myself a hot number, by any stretch of the imagination. It's just that I’m ten years younger than my husband and most of his cohorts. It didn’t help that the dress I had on showed way too much cleavage. (Normally, I wore a camisole underneath, but it was 90 degrees, way too hot for even one extra layer.)
        Maybe I’m being overly sensitive. But in my experience, most women don’t exactly relish socializing with other women a decade their junior. It’s not merely a matter of being consumed by different life cycles and issues. With women my own age, I more or less manage to fit in. With my daughter and her friends, I feel like a respected voice of reason... and the only one who can afford to pick up the check. When I’m around women in their 30s and 40s, I become painfully conscious of what I once was and no longer am.
        But neither of these women seemed inclined to ostracize me in any way. On the contrary, the blonde made the ultimate gesture of female bonding; she announced an urgent need to visit the ladies’ room and insisted that I join her.
        Inside, I once again encountered the woman in the improvised skirt, who eagerly recounted the story behind her fashion inspiration all over again. She explained that the “shaper” she’d referred to was a girdle. (For anyone unfamiliar with this outdated term, just think Spanx with a little less Spandex, minus the spunky marketing campaign.) On second thought, I think I'll pass.
        Back at the table, dinner was winding down. And as much as we were enjoying ourselves and our newfound friends, it was time to move on to our son’s gig. Fortunately, our daughter, Allegra, had just befriended a handsome young underclassman who offered to drive us there in a golf cart, explaining that the venue was all the way across campus.
        En route, we passed many a bandstand from which emanated assorted genres of live music. One of these scenes appeared to be swarming with activity. “The Beach Boys are playing there tonight,” our youthful guide divulged.
        “The Beach Boys?!?!” my daughter and I squealed in unison. “Are you serious?”
        He was indeed. But we already had a prior engagement with the Stan Rubin Orchestra.
        SRO, as it’s known, had attracted an energetic crowd of onlookers and dancers, many of whom were decades away from their 70s, as evinced by their wild tattoos and even wilder dance moves. Allegra was almost instantly recruited as a dance partner by a recent graduate, who, typical of this Ivy League outpost, was distinctly nerdy in a techno-geek kind of way, but well-versed in swing dancing and more than happy to be her tutor.
        Our own command of swing steps was loose at best – we’d taken a few lessons prior to our wedding, to no discernible avail, 27 years ago -- but we had plenty of fun faking it through several numbers, after which I was happy to take a seat and watch Allegra twirl and Aidan play.
        To our disappointment, Aid barely got to chat with us after the music had ended before packing up his instrument to catch a ride home with the band. (We’d invited him to stay overnight, but he’d already made plans for the weekend that did not include Princeton or his folks.)
        Then we began the long trek back to our car, with our undergraduate friend and his nifty golf cart nowhere in sight. By now, we were exhausted and dripping from the heat. But we somehow revived upon reaching the tent where the Beach Boys allegedly were.
        A security guard at the gate told us it wasn’t actually The Beach Boys, but just one of them – a Beach Boy – and that he was either taking a break or possibly finished for the night. But we decided to take our chances anyway.
        Moments later, to our delight, the lights flashed on and the musicians revved up. Yet it was a trio of women, not boys, who took the stage. Decked out in tasseled mini-dresses and towering beehive wigs, The Party Girls, as I think they're known, crooned through a lengthy medley of tunes recorded by The Supremes, Shirelles and other girl groups of the ‘50s and ‘60s – everything from “Stop in the Name of Love” and “My Boyfriend’s Back” to “The Shoop Shoop Song” (better known as “It’s in His Kiss.”)

"...If you wanna know
 If he loves you so
 It's in his kiss.
That's where it is!"

        Singing along animatedly, I found myself remembering all the lyrics and busting out dance moves I hadn’t used in decades as our daughter joined us on the dance floor. Somehow, she seemed to know nearly all the words, too. (Talk about female bonding experiences!) When we were too tired to shimmy for one more second, we reluctantly resumed our journey back to the car… only to stop at two or three more concert venues and dance through a song at each, drenched with sweat and doubled over with laughter. We didn’t check into our hotel until nearly 2 a.m.
        
        The first Princeton reunion I’d ever attended was exactly 25 years ago. I know that because I was excruciatingly pregnant at the time with Aidan, who is now 24, and spent much of the event complaining that I was at a weekend-long beer party, unable to have a sip. Now I realized that I’d probably been better off the first time, because I woke up Saturday with a doozy of a hangover. By the time we’d made our way back to the campus, after picking up some Father’s Day goodies at the official college store downtown, it was already time for lunch.
         Although there were dozens of tables set out in a tent for my husband’s class, there didn’t appear to be a trio of consecutive open seats anywhere. We surveyed the crowd chowing down and chatting energetically, and I experienced a wave of the social isolation I imagine my husband often must have felt 45 years ago. What in G-d’s name were we doing here?
        Then I spied three free chairs, waved my family over, and plopped my plate down.
        Within moments, I heard the man beside me mention USA Today, the newspaper at which I’d landed my very first reporting job back in the early ’80s. It turned out that he’d been a staff writer there at the same time, and we knew countless people in common. We got so caught up comparing notes and reminiscing that my husband and daughter grew bored and wandered off.
        But soon I had to tear myself away as well. It was time for the main event.
        At Princeton, the reunion business is a well-oiled and ultra-efficient machine, presumably geared to fan school spirit and garner a never-ending supply of donations. All colleges have some version of this, I suppose. But nowhere have I seen more flagrant displays of school pride than at the annual Princeton alumni parade, better known as the P-rade.
        Every class in recent history, from the one with the oldest living members to the group that's about to graduate, lines up in chronological order. Most classes draw such entensive participation, especially when celebrating any multiple-of-five anniversary, that this ends up drawing a cast of thousands to cavort through the campus.
        The proceedings go on for so long that before lining up, I inquired if either of my family members needed to use the facilities. “You don’t want to have to pee during the P-rade,” I observed. At which my husband grew incensed.
        “When it gets to the point where you’re telling people to go to the bathroom, you’ve officially become an old person,” he scolded, noting that my mother had been notorious for this characteristically Jewish habit, often volubly demanding to a group at large, “Does anyone need to ‘make’?”
        Nudgy or not, my suggestion turned out to be prudent advice because there were more than 20 classes preceding ours. And one of them -- the class of ‘86, which had taken the lead because they were celebrating 25 years and had a mammoth turnout -- took what felt like 25 years to pass.
        Every few minutes, as their legions strutted by, our group would break into the official Princeton cheer: “Rah, rah, rah! Tiger, tiger, tiger! Sis, sis, sis! Boom boom boom bah!” To which would then be appended three cheers for the number of the class we were honoring. “86! 86! 86!” This seemed strangely tribal, and rather sophomoric for men in their mid-60s and beyond. But the energy and enthusiasm exhibited were so infectious that my daughter and I soon found ourselves eagerly chanting along.
       Adding a liberal dose of local color was the fact that each passing group was outfitted in their official class regalia, ranging from vividly striped or printed sport jackets in various permutations of Halloween hues to tangerine colored polo shirts and Bermuda shorts. Many within my husband’s contingent were bedecked in striped denim overalls worn over orange shirts, having long ago been designated “The Overall Class,” although I’ve never quite understood why. (Do they favor farmer clothes? Do they mean to suggest that they’re especially well-rounded? Or are they arrogant enough to fancy themselves reigning over all the rest?)
        Although Princeton didn’t go coed until 1969, there were plenty of wives marching by their men, and few had hesitated to put a tiger in their tank -- or tank top. Some simply improvised with feathered boas, brightly colored hats, and other orange accessories. But many classes had provided official costumes for the wives as well, notably the group of women dressed in novel trompe l’oeil T-shirts printed to make it appear as if they were deeply tanned, exceedingly well-endowed and wearing skimpy tiger-striped bikinis.
        Several participants also had not fur-gotten costumes for their canine companions, although my heart went out to what were literally, in terms of both temperature and attire, a bunch of truly hot dogs.
        Further embellishing the atmosphere were the countless props on hand, or more often in hand. Our friend Jay Lagemann, an accomplished sculptor from Martha’s Vineyard, had fashioned a comical, collossal-sized tiger statue to which my daughter and many another reveler flocked to be photographed alongside, as if it were a celebrity.
        Then there were the innumerable placards that many of the marchers held high. This being Princeton, some of these announced the credentials of the “Aluminaries” who were carrying them: “Nobel Prize for Physics” or “Ambassador to Greece, Mauritius and Zimbabwe.”
        Others served to make this trek across campus a true trip down Memory Lane, by noting historical events and popular songs from graduation years gone by: “1961 – Elvis inducted into the Army,” “Yakety Yak – The Coasters,” and “The Drifters – Save the Last Dance for Me.”
        Still others wryly sandwiched social commentary with historical perspective:
        “1971 Long Hair -- 2011 Longing for Hair,” declared one.
        “1961 Television Networks -- 2011 Social Networks,” noted another.
        But societal evolution was nowhere more apparent than in the faces of the alumni themselves as our class wended its way through the gauntlet, being resoundingly saluted by class after class. “66! 66! 66!” Those of the earliest vintage were uniformly male and overwhelmingly white. Members of the younger generation were not just able to cheer with much more volume and verve. Their ranks distinctly displayed far more gender and ethnic diversity.
        After waiting for over an hour in the scorching heat, then walking a considerable distance, I was so drenched and drained of energy that I couldn’t imagine how the many alumni who’d graduated before I’d even been born had managed to endure… other than the prudent yet admittedly paunchy few who’d eschewed walking in favor of golf carts. Yet I could plainly see that they’d been there and had been out in full force. “NOT ONE ’51’ER  EVER MARRIED ELIZABETH TAYLOR” one of their signs proclaimed.
        But as we made our way from the parade’s endpoint to our class's next event, a Caribbean cocktail bash featuring frozen margaritas and pina coladas, I could also see at last what had brought these aging revelers back year after year.
        All of the activities may have been silly and a bit too saturated with alcohol. The loud costumes and even louder chants may not have been quite seemly for Ivy-League-educated adults. But put it together and what have you got? Actual unadulterated fun.
        I’m not saying I’ll think twice in the future before denying my husband any request, whether modest or monumental. I’m not saying I have the slightest interest in attending my own 35th college reunion, which is coming up next week. (No one I know is likely to be there. I’m still far from gregarious by nature. And face it, Brandeis always has been far more about academic achievement, political activism and keeping kosher than having fun.)
        But maybe I’ll hesitate at least a little before going into full-throttle whining and kvetching the next time I’m invited to do something I only think I won’t enjoy.
        Meanwhile, I can hardly wait until the 50th in another five years. 2016! 2016! 2016!