CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE: `FOUR-EYES' GETS LOST ON A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY

My friend Mitch wants to rediscover his childhood.

Mitch and I met in kindergarten. We were both fussing about being abandoned by our mothers to the rigors of public education and bonded immediately as we snuffled and tried not to burst into outright tears.

I was there for Mitch's childhood and pre-adolescence and even (shudder) puberty. And he was there for mine.

The problem with real life is you always leave behind witnesses.

Mitch and I had a lot in common. We were both fat kids with glasses who made good grades and were well-liked by our teachers.

Why would anyone want to re-live that kind of childhood? "Four-eyes" was the nicest thing my classmates called me until I was in college.

But I digress. Mitch, now a very successful tax attorney who drives a red Beemer and wears designer bow ties, feels like something's missing.

Gee. A wife? Kids? Some guarantee of immortality? Golf clubs?

Mitch, I told him, you're too young for a mid-life crisis.

He took the logical approach, pointing out that he's actually pretty well-prepared for said meltdown.

"I've already got the red convertible," he said. "Now I just need a 19-year-old blonde."

Never argue with a lawyer.

Mitch has come a long way (baby) from his blue-collar roots and I guess he feels a little lost sometimes.

There was nothing remarkable about our childhoods, except for our undisputed status as UberGeeks. Our parents loved us and stayed married and we pretty much emulated the Cleavers. Except my mother didn't wear heels to clean house.

Gym was the worst part of childhood. Some co-workers and I were exchanging P.E. horror stories, and I'm relieved to know I'm not the only one who never managed that rope-climbing ordeal.

The thought of going into a locker room still makes me break out in hives. It's probably worse for men.

I took classes like fencing and orienteering because I knew I could ace the written tests and not completely destroy my GPA.

And, when it came to orienteering, they sent us out to the football field with maps and compasses and orders to re-group at the library by the end of class.

Somehow, I managed. But while I always manage to find the library, I still don't know my left from my right.

Maybe I could sue.

Mitch is making noise about going to our class reunion later this year. He wants me to go with him.

I've never been to a class reunion. People who have say it takes about 20 years to get past all the adolescent crap and be friendly to the prom queen who made your life hell. I have a few years to go.

I think I'm annoyed by Mitch's sudden spurt of nostalgia. There was nothing horrific about our growing-up time, but I, for one, was tremendously relieved when it was all over.

Especially field hockey.

Peggy O'Farrell is a copy editor for the Southeast Missourian.