So now I am on the planning committee for my 30th high school reunion. A dinner meeting is planned for next week. In a sense, the reunion IS next Monday.

I can attest that my fellow graduates of an unnamed progressive private high school on the Upper West Side of Manhattan that no longer exists are an organized and accomplished lot. We already have a detailed "to-do" list:

At the first meeting we will be discuss: Who to invite? How to find them? How to convince them to attend? What event or events should we have? Where should we have them? What to order for dinner? Why it is not odd that we all know the history of the labor movement is great detail, but cannot name any state capitols.

Those of us on the planning committee (doesn’t that sound like high school?) sent a flurry of e-mails to one another yesterday. Mind you, I haven’t been in touch with some of these people for years. In one e-mail, someone on the committee surmised that I and another friend would be unable to attend next week’s meeting in Manhattan because we live in Park Slope and each have 2 children. My friend swiftly responded with this missive:

We would like to protest the stereotyped and diminishing description of us as