Well, I wasn't the worst looking one at my 40th high school reunion but I wasn't the best looking one, either. I always think of myself as being young, so this reunion was quite a shock.
   From Denver I flew on Chicken Little Airlines, bouncing across the Rocky Mountains to evaluate how my pale attempts at immortality stacked up against my classmates. I was filled with fear and anticipation although fear certainly won out flying in that dinky plane. If one could die from terminal turbulence, this would be my obituary.
   I stayed with a high school friend, Mary Lou. We've remained friends through the years, but I really can't think why. She was the class beauty queen and still is, so you can imagine me looking like Methuselah standing next to her. With a glorious suntan and a boyfriend 16 years her junior, she bounded about in her teeny white jean shorts, crop top and strappy sandals while the rest of us lumbered around in our fat clothes trying our best to look just minimally attractive. She looked like Sophia Loren, and I felt like Zasu Pitts, if anyone is still living who remembers who that is.
   When I arrived, I was astonished at the number of old people at my reunion. But then again, some of them were old even in high school. Then there are those like me who are eternally young. And in denial.
   At the 30th reunion, the men were all bald and fat. Now just 10 years later, the women were, too.
   We all wore name tags which was good since I didn't recognize anyone. I'd read their name tags, then say, ''Well of course, Susie! You haven't changed at all.'' Then I noticed others reading my name tag and exclaiming, ''Well M.A.! You haven't changed at all.'' The big liars.
   Everyone knows the biggest concern at any reunion is what to wear, but I hardly gave it a thought. Just a few months of agonizing reappraisal. And with luck, I'll have my Neiman's bill paid off by Christmas.
   The problem is everybody always dressed Western, and I just used to hate the cowboy boots and Indian jewelry when I was in high school. It was so beneath my dignity. Besides, I had bigger fish to fry. I wanted the bright lights of Broadway, Chanel suits and international intrigue, not this country roads stuff. Just on principal, I wouldn't have worn my jeans to the reunion even if I could have gotten them zipped.
   In preparation for this occasion, each class member had sent in a little composition outlining the outstanding moments of their lives. Well, I may have a checkered past but I wouldn't trade my composition for theirs. Ever. Most were colorless and dull as dirt. Fence-sitters: ''Married, two kids, worked at same job 40 years, retired.'' What a yawn-er.
   A sadder but wiser life for me. I was drawn to those more like mine that spoke of risk and adventure and stupidity: ''Married, divorced, separated, widowed, single, transient, malcontent, bon vivant, self-righteous, jerk, succeeded, failed, beat death, flew by seat of pants.'' Now those were the ones who had ''done people and seen places,'' to quote Mae West. (Anyone living who remembers her?) Give me a man who was dark and twisted and I was off running up Fool's Hill.
   Some things, however, remain the same. The girl I couldn't stand in high school I still couldn't stand. Old Sanctimonious looked better than I'd hoped, but still said graceless, tasteless, socially retarded things to others like, ''Let's see -- last time we talked, Melba, you were living in a trailer and on welfare,'' or ''We never thought you'd graduate, Billy, but here you are, still functioning.'' Superior social skills.
   My old boyfriend George was there and I have to admit my heart still caught in my throat when I saw him. I absolutely twinkled. What is it that attaches us to our first love? Familiarity? Innocence? Memories? I guess he's no prize, and maybe no beauty, but I'm not objective. He still looks like the football hero to me, handsome and strong. Never mind the thinning hair. He still takes my breath away.
   And his wife was ugly. I was happy about that. Except for the nagging little thought that she got him and I didn't.
   Bud, the best-looking guy in our class, had become a famous cowboy and had rodeo-ed all over the world till, in an alcohol-related incident, he injured his back when his own horse threw him in his front yard. (The horse was sober.)
   Bob, the class nerd, had made a bucket of money but still showed up in an RV about 100 feet long that had white leather interior and red carpets. He parked it right out in front, too, so we could all admire it. Class always shows.
   The only person who really amounted to anything in our class was the valedictorian, Danielle. She was voted ''Most Likely to Succeed'' and she did. I've stayed friends with Old Barracuda all these years, but she never comes to the reunions, although I call her and threaten her with bodily injury. She always has some lame excuse like she has to sell some of her corporations or fly to London to straighten out the House of Lords or some fool thing like that. I think the real reason is she can't get her jeans zipped, either.
   Reunions really prove the older we get, the better we remember we were. It was fun to sit around with photos, old annuals and memories. Our fun seemed simpler then -- more innocent. We changed the marquee at the drive-in movie to say something mildly risque, and thought ourselves clever. (The guys got blamed for it). We wore strapless net formals to our prom held in the high school gym; we danced close to ''Moments to Remember'' by The Four Freshmen; we laughed about evacuating the school because Jim made a stink bomb in chemistry, proving once again that youth is wasted on the young. The memories were bittersweet recalling a time when we were cute in a stupid way.
   In high school I guess everyone feels gawky, confused, insecure and on hormone alert. But in spite of it all, we grew up and we all did it our way. And we realized, none of us would change a thing. (Well, maybe George ...)
   We bragged about our kids and grandkids, and we talked about the thrilling things that lie ahead -- memory loss, chicken skin, drool cups and incontinence, to name just a few of the highlights.
   The last day, calculator in hand, I determined 14 percent of our class had already bought the farm (that's a picturesque way of saying dead). And based on the compositions, an additional 11 percent were heading for their last roundup. While the rest of us were pleased to be counted among the remaining 75 percent still alive and kicking, we did decide to have our next reunion in five years instead of 10. Just in case.