I wasn’t sure why I kept doing this to myself. Every year I swear I’m a glutton for punishment, and every year I tell myself I’m not going, yet I find myself packing an overnight bag for a weekend getaway with the girls, all because of the guilt Amy makes me feel when she calls the week of to confirm her ladies in waiting.

I don’t even know how I got wrapped up in this annual event. No. I take that back. Yes, I do.  See it all started at our ten-year high school reunion. See, I was by far the least popular girl in school. Probably the last kid in school anyone ever saw. I ranked right up there with Emily, what’s her name, who had braces. You know the kind that had the halo around the head. Yeah, well that was me. Not one who wore braces, but just someone no one talked to, or even acknowledged in the hall on the way to class.  

At the ten-year reunion, you would have hoped that everyone matured and grew up. But they didn’t. The cheerleaders still hung out together at the “it” table and the jocks still were jocks.  Only they were worse. They just happened to have a little bit of money in their wallets which made them all the more unbearable. 

During the reunion, no one offered a hello, welcome to the party, or it is nice to see you.  Nothing. I signed in and got my name badge and tried to make small talk––but it was just flat. There was no interest in me or what I had achieved or been up to.  It was like high school all over again. 

The committee decided they had so much fun at the ten-year, they wanted to do it every five years instead. Can you believe it? Are we that hung up on reliving our high school days that we have to spend a few nights partying it up with our fellow classmates every five years moving forward. Well, apparently, we were. 

The fifteenth year was a little better. It seemed that the additional five years humbled more people. More of them were married and brought their spouses or were pregnant and living the dream of being a mom of 2.5 kids. How they were able to spawn 2.5 children in the span of five years is beyond me. I couldn’t even seem to get a guy to take me out for a second date. God I was pathetic.

However, during the fifteen-year reunion, more of the woman had an interest in what one was doing with their day-to-day lives. Whether they were comparing notes and seeing if the grass was greener on the other side, or if they could convince others they were living their best life? My answer was no. Only because I didn’t have someone to share a life with.  It was just me and Juliet––my cat.  

I was single and living in a condo, and I worked hard to pay it off. I was thirty-two at the time and had my “adult” job, living on my own. Everything I earned went to pay off my home, and I was proud of my accomplishments. I wanted to be sure that nothing would ever happen to it. During my sophomore year of school, my parents filed for bankruptcy. We lost the home I grew up in, and my parents filed for divorce.  Living in a one-bedroom apartment during my high school years was pure torture. I vowed, I would never allow someone to take what I worked so hard for. 

The head cheerleader, Amy, sought me out the moment I walked into the ballroom. I wasn’t sure what her motive was. She seemed to cling to me like Reynolds Wrap. Before the night was over, I was drinking one too many tequila shots and singing Girls Just Want to Have Fun at the karaoke lounge with a group of girls and a few gay men in tow.

And since then, every year, she has a weekend getaway. The group of girls I somehow got grouped into that night became a click. Some were from the cheer squad and others were random girls I didn’t even know. Juan tagged along. Only because he deserved this weekend away just as much as the rest of us, and he would be our go-to fashion expert for the one night we ventured out. 

Amy instantly approved. In total there were nine of us including Juan. The last four years I came home hung over and swearing I would never do it again. Each year someone gets arrested for inappropriate behavior or streaking. A fight will break out or someone ends up locked in the bathroom crying because life just sucks. Thank god, it has yet to be me. But Amy seems to bring out the worst in everyone in the group, but feels terrible in the end and makes up for it with desserts and wine, which of course everyone forgives her.  

Of course, each of the women want to get away and let loose––and boy do they. It is like they run wild and can’t control themselves. They spend their days tethered to their homes, cleaning up after their children and being more of a mother to their husbands than a wife. Or they have a career and they take care of the kids and their husband. No wonder the one weekend they get away, they forget the world they left behind for the weekend. They forget who they are and just freak the hell out. That is a life I will never have and won’t have to worry about. 

One nighters are never a problem for me. It is just getting past that point is the issue. So, finding a man who I would have to clean up after would never be something I would be able to scratch off my bucket list of life, then run away from for a weekend to forget about.

Amy got married to a boat salesman. They have a nice big house, a few hours from the lake, and she has three kids. Her life is nothing if not extraordinary. She is living the dream. If I had to say who she reminded me the most of, it would be Eva Longoria from Desperate Housewives. Nothing is ever her fault. She has to maintain a certain appearance, whether it is through her home or what she wears. She is glamorous, vain, and often is so self-absorbed she can’t listen long enough to hear about others’ problems.  Why when hers are more important. Her husband, who, sorry to say, isn’t anything like Ricardo Chavira, but more like Adam Sandler. How the two hooked up, I will never know. 

I knew the moment I pulled up into the long drive in my paid-for Toyota Corolla, it was going to be a long three-day weekend.  Juan was getting out of his sports car when he eyed me.

“Girl, there better be a sexy you know what in that duffle of yours,” Juan said as he slammed his trunk after pulling out his Louis Vuitton Keepall leather which carried his all too tight swim shorts and leather shoes along with his Louis cloth travel bag, which no doubt had his suede sports coat for his night out attire.

“Hello, Juan.  How has it been?” I gave him an air kiss on each cheek.  He eyed my ancient bag. “Don’t worry, I have all I need.” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. No doubt. If I didn’t, Amy would ensure I could pull something from her closet.

We walked up the steps to the ten-foot door and pressed the doorbell that chimed, “We are the Champions.”

“I love that tune,” Juan smiled.  “It never gets old.”

“Yeah right. Never gets old.” I’m the only single thirty-six-year-old in the group and for the life of me, I don’t know why I am still a person of interest amongst this group. 

Next month, discover what mischief this group gets into and if trouble finds them.

This was written by our contributing writer, Shannon Hrimnak.