If I’m the trophy, what the heck was the contest?

Dr. T and I attended his high school reunion this weekend. I’ve been toying with the idea of returning my hair to its natural colour (if we can remember what that is). Dr. T’s reaction? ‘Please wait until after the reunion. I want a blonde trophy wife.’
The reunion was loads of fun, which is good, since it could have been a total yawnfest for me. As it turns out, he went to school with some very nice people, many of whom are now rather scarily grey and do not look at all like they were ever teenagers. Eavesdropping on the various conversations, however, quickly puts it in perspective. Room full of middle-aged, married, Volvo-driving people, all engaged in variations on the same theme:
Remember when we got completely wasted and trashed your dad’s car?
Man, that was a blast.
*Alternatively, yes.
Scariest part of the event – discovering that Dr. T’s contemporary is about to become a grandfather. And that it’s mathematically possible. Yoiks.