I finished getting ready for the reunion at my parents’ house. My mother, who had been watching me like a cat, finally said, “Your hair looks great.” It was clear she sensed something different about me and had settled on my hair, which she always found too messy.

But my biggest proving ground lay just beyond the door of the Keg, the hangout of choice for those in high school with fake IDs.

“Did you get a boob job?” asked my best friend from tenth grade as I walked up to greet her. When I told her I’d been working out and it was all the tightening around them that created the illusion of buxomness, she accused me of wearing a padded bra.

Boys who had ignored me in high school came out of the woodwork to say hello. Joey, the class heartthrob, sauntered over and hugged me. “Wow,” he said looking me up and down. “Hubba, hubba.”

My friend Allison offered to take a photo of me and Joey. The most popular girl in school, she still had her head-cheerleader figure. “Your body looks amazing,” she said, reviewing the photos on her camera.

In fact, most of the women at the reunion looked pretty amazing. Maybe, like me, they had all spent the past three months chained to a StairMaster.

I worked the crowd, feeling more confident than I ever had in high school. I had never shared the same air space with most of the people who were now treating me like a prom queen. “You look fantastic,” said the girl who sat in front of me in geometry. “Is there a picture of you aging like Dorian Gray in your closet?” asked the boy who used to tease me in gym.

I was thrilled by their attention but unsure what to do next.

So I did what any gym rat would do. After a few cocktails, I started daring my old classmates to punch me in the stomach like I was Houdini.

“Go ahead,” I told a group of guys. “I’m stronger than you think.”

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