This week, as anticipation for my 40-year reunion of St. Ann Elementary School Class of ’69 reached its peak, a tidal wave of memories came rushing back:

First day of kindergarten. I wore a plaid dress, size 6x. I HATED 6x. And I was stuck in that size forever. So, I had a tummy. So what? Ya think it had anything to do with all the whole milk and Twinkies grown-ups were feeding me? Or that stupid “Clean your plate, there are children starving in China” schtick? (Wow. Sorry. I don’t know where that came from.)

I have two vivid memories from that year: Losing the role of Mary in the Christmas pageant to a goody-goody blond with a pretty face (I was relegated to the angel chorus; just another cherubim in the crowd — the ultimate insult) and being sent to the “bad table” for coloring a sailor’s pants purple, an act my teacher interpreted as un-American defiance.

The “bad table” had a glass top through which naughty children were forced to stare at our feet while keeping our hands folded for upward of 15 minutes. This, for a 4 1/2-year-old with the Jimmy legs, was worse than 15 being water-boarded.

I took a metal red barn lunch box to first grade. (Can you say “tragically unhip”? Would it have killed my mother to spring for the Disney school bus model? And do you think I had a chance of scoring a soft vinyl Beatles lunchbox years later? As much chance as finding white go-go boots under the Christmas tree in fifth grade. Can you say “snowflake in hell”?)

Sister Mary Cleophus, my first-grade teacher, was young and beautiful. I adored her. Looking back, she was my first girl crush, a psychologically complicated conundrum since she was, for all intents and purposes, the bride of Christ. (Paging Dr. Freud!)

An ahead-of-her-time proponent of positive reinforcement, Mary Cleo kept holy cards and Hershey’s Kisses in her top drawer and presented them judiciously to children who did well in their class. I ate it up. The Kisses, not the holy cards. Hmm. Could it be I loved the chocolate and not her? (Paging Dr. Atkins!)

In second grade, I continued to thrive, motivated by Sister Anna, who was, undoubtedly, the scariest woman I’d encountered in my seven years. We called her Anna Banana — a nickname that, in retrospect, was way too sweet and tropical for a woman with no lips and albino-like skin. I remember little from that year, except my heart jumping through my navy jumper whenever she called my name.

Third grade was a bit of a blur, too. I don’t know why, but I blame long division. We’re talking “new math” long division. When “new math” was introduced, it rendered every parent in America useless where homework assistance was concerned. My father, bless his heart, tried and tried but couldn’t grasp the concept. He was a mathematical eunuch in his own castle. It was unbearable. No wonder I’ve blocked third grade from my consciousness.

Around that time, I was introduced to the unforgettable aroma of vomit sprinkle. Orange. Not like an orange Creamsicle or Orange Crush. This was a distinctive, disgusting orange scent. Of all the smells of childhood — wet grass, new car, pool chlorine — vomit sprinkle is indelibly burned into my brain.

The middle grades were the beginning of my scholastic decline, when parent-teacher conferences took a downward turn: “Catherine has the ability, she just doesn’t apply herself.”

Oh yeah, sister? Well, I beg to differ. There is one activity to which I not only I applied myself, I totally kicked butt: The “Chicken Fat” song.

“Chicken Fat,” written by Meredith Wilson and sung by Robert Preston (of “The Music Man” fame) and billed as “The Youth Fitness Song,” was distributed to every school by President John F. Kennedy in 1961.

On rainy days, when outdoor P.E. classes were impossible, the nuns would put the 45 RPM record on the Victrola and lead us in a rousing musical calisthenics routine, hot long-flowing habits and all:

“Push up. Every morning. (Ten times!) Push up. Starting low.

Once more on the rise. Nuts to the flabby guys. Go you chicken fat, GO AWAY! Go you chicken fat, go!”

Ah, so many memories, so little time. I need to get ready for the reunion. But what to wear? Wonder if I can still squeeze into that 6x plaid dress.

— Cathy Hamilton is a 53-year-old empty nester, wife, mother and author, who blogs every day at BoomerGirl.com.