My husband and I went to Laughlin, Nevada, for a tiny reunion with some old  high school friends —  mostly the boysnowmen.

We all show a little wear and tear, but admittedly some more than others.  Hard to be objective about myself, but I’m definitely chubbier, and I imagine everyone talking about that when I’m not around.  What an ego, huh?

There were two groups gathered.  We were the “younger” group.  The other group were classes that graduated in the 1950’s.  The group started about 25 years ago with previous members of car clubs.  There’s another antiquated term — kind of like “arithmetic.”

The older group are a little more bent over than we are, but I can feel my spine curving right now.

One old — I mean ex — girlfriend has found new love (actually a guy I went to grammar school with) after her husband passed away a little over a year ago.  I am thrilled for her.  She told me she woke up one year to the day her husband passed, and she felt safe, renewed and enthusiastic about starting a new life.  Her husband’s messages were getting through.

Others have lost spouses in death and divorce.  Reunions are a reminder of our mortality.

Talking to one couple, it turned out that the guy in the relationship and I both have thought about hiking the St. James pilgrimage trail.  The entire way is around 500 miles — from the Pyrenees in France  to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Spain.

Could I do it?  Perhaps a shorter, guided version?

I visited Santiago de Compostela in 2009 and watched as the pilgrims came into town — some on bikes.  The trail goes right by my paternal grandfather’s village where he was born — Tameiron. I always tell everyone that the village is about as big as a postage stamp.

Part of me thinks the trail should be done alone, but the chicken part of me wants to be surrounded by friends — to make me laugh when I fall down — just like the reunion in Laughlin.