This Saturday is my twenty-five year high school reunion in Poplarville, Mississippi.

Yes, 25.

I think this calls for a hearty HOLY SHIT.

I graduated when I was 16. How in the hell am I now 41?

And how are my classmates SO OLD?

And yet so very awesome? ; p

I find myself vacillating on whether or not to go. I want to, but so far I haven’t quite talked myself into it. (Hear that loud clacking sound? that’s my friend Tracey typing out an insistent e-mail telling me my ass better be there, with bells on.)

Oh I’m using lots of excuses, the 5 hour drive, finding a place to stay, the heat, gas prices, I need my hair did, I need to lose 50 pounds, yadda yadda yadda.

Not one of those is a good enough reason for me not to be there.

It’s not them, it’s me. And I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the thought of having to explain to the ones that don’t know that Gregory is dead. Maybe it’s because I’ll be alone. I know, I won’t really be “alone”, I’ll be surrounded by people I love and who love me back, but bottom line, I will be alone. I’ll go alone, I’ll be alone afterward, and I’ll come home alone.

Times like these are when I really feel his absence so much more keenly. Coming off one of our favorite holiday weekends, then going right into a kind of milestone in my life is hard. It’s good times,noodle salad and all that, but sometime’s I get tired of sitting at a table for one. It’s times like this that I am really pissed off that he up and died on me.

But, as usual, I’ll moan and groan and drive on, cause I know that I’ll have fun, I’ll be said if I miss it, and I’ve gotten pretty good at being my own best friend. I only went to school at PHS for a year, but I’ve known some of my classmates for most of my life. Technically, I have two high school’s, so I’m twice as lucky as most to have an amazing group of friends from both. Plus, I’ll be going home.

Home.

Besides, how can I resist seeing these smiling faces?

**DISCLAIMER – all stories in this series are true. The names of suspects, victims and officers involved have been changed to protect their identity and to keep them from suing my ass. The opinions expressed are mine only, and do not reflect the policies or opinions of any of my former employers or co-workers.**

In my former life as a Criminal Investigator, I got to wear plainclothes to work and on call out duty. Naturally, being a woman, I was all about the clothes and shoes that I could wear to work. It had to be comfortable but still cop-like, in case I had to fight someone or go through a door or something like that. I also couldn’t run around in heels or strappy sandals, as much as I would have liked to. My footwear of choice was usually a pair of comfortable Timberlands or something dressy but practical for court. Then of course there were the Hi-Tecs in case I ever had to be in uniform or tactical gear or whatever.

My favorite shoes however, were always Doc Martens. I think I had about six or seven different pairs that I tromped around in – black/brown/tan/hi-cut/lo-cut whatever, if they were Docs, I had them.

There was one problem with my Doc’s though.

Every time I wore a new pair, someone ended up dead.

For real.

The first time, I had some nice tan mid ankle ones with a really thick sole that I was sporting with some new jeans and I’m sure some prepped out shirt. I tried to balance my wardrobe between preppy and punk – prunky?

Anyway, that day some young man decided to put a Russian assault rifle under his chin and pull the trigger. I’m glad I had them on, because that’s not a mess you want to be flitting around in wearing nothing less than nuclear grade soles.

The next time, I was wearing my new black hi-lace Docs around and had just washed them off after walking around at the stockyard in poop and dust. Then we got a call of a drowning in a  pond. Needless to say, they got washed again. Several times that day.

Next ? Brown low classic style Doc’s. The poor soul who drew the Doc Marten death card that day was murdered by some wayward youth and had sat in an un-airconditioned mobile home for a few days before anyone found him. In July. He wasn’t only a stinker, he was a slider. You probably don’t want the full on definition for a slider, but let’s just say that your skin starts to break down after a few days and if someone tries to move you it will, well….never mind.

Finally, the last ones I can remember were my black classic low-riders. Wreck on the interstate. Seven people in a car meant for four. Not one of them had on a seat belt. Three were DRT (dead right there), and four were on their way to the hospital on a wing and a prayer. One of the poor dearly departed was so badly mangled on his way out of the jagged metal mess that he left his ear in the emergency lane. Which promptly got stuck to the bottom of my shoe when I accidentally stepped on it. Prompting several weeks of officers and medics shouting at my shoes “Hey hey can ya hear me?” ….. emergency personnel have a sick,twisted sense of humor. It keeps them from going absolutely insane.

I still have all of those Doc Martens. They sit high on a shelf in a closet full of my things at the lake house.

One day maybe I’ll wear them again, but with all of the stuff going on in my life these last 15 months?

I’m kind of afraid to.