The Castle

I never meant to do it. I really didn't. I went to Wellesley, and I ended up marrying a guy from Harvard. It was not my goal, or my intention. In fact, when my now husband told me he went to Harvard, over a bit of Fondue in the San Fernando Valley, I almost choked. How could this have happened? I had come so far!

Well, now 20 years later the reunions are rolling around. Last year Jonathan came to mine at Wellesley (I am an older woman...), where, as befits a women's college, husbands and children are welcome!

This year is his college reunion, but we are skipping that for something even more spectacular: the 100th year Anniversary of the Harvard Lampoon.

I accidentally wandered into the castle -- (placed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1978)-- a few times as an undergrad and what a scene. I admit I remember little. The alcohol was flowing too freely. What I do remember is bacchanalian revelry and college decadence. There were smoking jackets, champagne, and crowds so tight it was hard to breathe if you were under 5'7". I remember guys in black tie hurling china plates against the wall. My memory gets fuzzy after that.

Suffice it to say, it was a legendary place. And now, in two weeks, we are going back. The Lampoon Anniversary invitation was cryptic, but enticing. Cocktails at the Isabella Gardner Museum on Friday, a black-tie dinner at the castle on Saturday. Erotic massage (^%$#@!????) from 2-4 on Saturday.

Jonathan is bringing me. Sweet guy. He would never leave me home. I think he wants me to see his now latent decadence in full flower. And I would like to. Bpth the Lampoon and its decadence have had a huge influence on his life, and I have had far too little decadence in mine!

Last night Jonathan was out (I will not say where for now) at a meeting and ran into crowds of Lampoon guys and their wives. He found out he is the only one bringing his beloved@!##$##@!!!!

What does it mean?

"I guess I didn't get the [no wife] memo," he said.

I am tempted to bow out, to let him have his crazy weekend with lobster, champagne and erotic massage. But who would tell the story? Who would tell the world? Who, I ask you, would bring back fantabulous tales for this little old blog o' mine?

I simply must go.

It is my duty as a reporter, an urban anthropologist, a Wellesley Woman!