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The Morning After
by Megan Cummings

My first Annual Gathering exposed my virgin senses to an onslaught of unique experiences.

Such as, I have never seen a man so deep in meditation over food as the fellow savoring his sandwich OVER the meat platter, morsels threatening to bombard the salami. Such as, never have I imbibed so much diet Mountain Dew that my urine could be mistaken for liquid gold. Such as, never have I completely forgotten myself enough to compete in a wet t-shirt contest.

A note on the social habits of Mensans -- there is no standard, but social rules seemed to fade away within the domain of the AG. Where else can you casually plunk yourself down at a table among strangers? Where else can you find your intimate conversation for two growing to an arguing mass? And yet I found myself more comfortable than I had in any other group. Unfortunately, since I am unaccustomed to having people looming silently behind me while I am playing games or conversing, I managed to get the creepies on several occasions. If there had been a contest for eavesdropping, the competition would have been cut throat. Overall, the greatest contributor to my enjoyment was superficial judgment taking a back seat. I am more keen to having my brain examined than my wardrobe.

Speaking of wardrobe, self-care diminished throughout the mind-carnival. Even sleep, my secret addiction, fell by the wayside. I slept for one 8:30 in the morning. And I still drove home to Sierra Vista. (Yes, that was me riding the rumblestrip much to my vehicle's dismay). I even drove home in the same shirt I had purchased three days earlier, and had worn religiously each day. I must say that while I did thrive on caffeinated beverages, the hospitality food was excellent. The best thing was that it was ALWAYS there. Nothing like a 3 am hotdog.

My most unusual experience had to be the Isaac Asimov Wet T-Shirt contest. Please note, I am the last person that should enter into a titty contest. First of all, I despise the sexual objectification of women, secondly, I'm not single, and thirdly, the editor of this newsletter is better endowed than me. However, with the competition including a male, a no-longer-male, and a grandmother, I was on even ground. So, wound up on diet Mountain Dew and donning a transparent Canada Mensa shirt, I grooved my way via Roxette's "She's got the look" to win the lovely, unpersonalized, award. My success was attributed to my athletic dance that, unbeknownst to the crowd, left more than one vertebrae out of whack.

So after all this I return to my regular life. Moralized, but de-virginized. Wondering... maybe I'm pregnant. Or is it just back-to-real-life bloating? By the way, is there an after-AG pill?

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