It looks like I’ll be attending RB High School’s Class of 1970 reunion on Sept. 17-18. Years ago, I didn’t think I would ever go again, but curiosity has overcome me. I attended my last one in 1990.

Say, don’t you just love class reunions? After the decades have passed by all too quickly, you hear about one and you decide to go. Mostly, it’s for the pleasure of comparing your young looks to that balding, pot-bellied bully who was once the terror of your P.E. class. Now you can take him!

Or, maybe, you go just to see how the looks of that snooty, snobby Head Cheerleader have decayed with age, so that now she looks like a cross between Phyllis Diller and Miss Havisham.

“Oooh, she sure didn’t hold up well,” gloats and giggles the “nobody girl,” who is now the happily married CEO of her own multimillion dollar corporation. “How many husbands is she up to, now?”

“What happened to him?” wonders the Class President, about the Class Nerd. Easy to answer. His acne cleared up, his voice deepened, he got himself a cool hairstyle, and he invented Google.

Heads with lost and thinning hair, wrinkles a-plenty and too many extra chins to count without using a calculator (or algebra), are all hovering above snappy, navy blue blazers and groovy black suits; the latter suitable for attending (or being the star of) upcoming funerals.

Maybe some guy arrives in a tux, just to show off. Trouble is, people are always mistaking him for a waiter.

Old classmates are dancing like they’re teenagers again, forgetting about the aches and pains they’ll feel in their joints the next morning. After their hangovers, of course.

The DJ sits prisoner to the music, chained to his chair, playing the same moldy oldie tunes he’s heard a million times; songs so ancient that nobody under the age of 40 recognizes them.

Maybe, as the evening wears on, the DJ plays the “Chicken Dance,” just to see if anyone’s still alive. Some woman will say to her husband, “Listen, dear! They’re playing our song!” To which he will mumble feebly, “Heh.” He used to be on the debating team.

The music is now so loud that all the hearing aids are turned off. At the far end of the room, conversations are still being attempted.

“Hey, Earl! Whatever happened to ‘Sugar Bear’ Hufford, anyway?”

“Eh, what? I can’t hear you over that dad-blasted Tiny Tim song!”

Fossilized pickup lines are dusted off and attempted, laughed at, and rejected. Yes, just like they were, back in your high school days. Some things never change!

Antique yearbooks are passed around, their covers falling off, their browning pages brittle at the edges, which bifocaled eyes strain to read.

Some kind of meal is finally served, and you wonder if your doctor would recommend it: “Ask your doctor if ‘roast beef’ is right for you!”

At last the final drink is spilled on the floor. The DJ is paid off and unshackled, and he roars and whines away in his Volkswagen Beetle van, while tired classmates stagger back to their hotel rooms or to their homes, if they can find them.

The next morning they vow to – never again! – attend another class reunion. But then a lot of them do, again and again and again.

More and more faces go missing, claimed by the draining years, until the last surviving member of the Class of 1970 shows up at the centennial reunion, mumbling, with his memories fading, the venerable, old fight song.

“We raise (cough) our praises all for you, RB … (gasp)! Fight on, fight on, fight on … fight on where? Oh, yeah. Fight on, fight on, fight on to … victory? Yeah, it’s victory. Royalty … no, loyalty will guide you. We … no, not ‘we’ anymore. I will stand beside you.

“Always fighting for the Blue and White! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! No, only three ‘fights’. Make every effort be a worthy deed. Mighty (cough) and stalwart (wheeze), marching in the reeds. Reeds? No. In the weeds? No, marching in the lead! Onward, onward, ever onward! That’s … the Spirit of RB (sigh)!”

*No actual classmates were harmed in the writing of this column.