So Says I

It wasn’t the walk of shame, it was the parade of shame.

Weddings are loathesome affairs. Not because we don’t wish well for our friends (or our date’s friends), but because we’re thrown into a room full of stranges, half of whom are related to one another.

I’m perfectly comfortable in front of a crowd, but significantly less so in it. So I’ve formed a strategy: I stick out my hand, say hello, and fake it ’til I make it. Everyone’s in the same boat at the shart of the event. But by the end of the night, after the coctail hour, the buffet, the silly dance circle, cake and coffee, ya’ll are old friends.

Such was the case last night — er, this morning — as Abbi and I stumbled out of the Mesa Grille afterparty and into a cab. The last martini may not have been the best idea, but the late night conversation was first rate.

Today, though, my cell phone was dead. The Nadas had my keys, and weren’t answering the door. And I wearing last night’s suit, shirt untucked, collar undone, tie askew like Sinatra. I struck out for my brother’s apartment, earning sideways glanses and passing smiles from a sidewalk crowded with Saturday morning casual. I hid my eyes, and tread lightly for the clip clop of my heels.

“Good morning!” I said to the barista at Starbuck’s.

“You sure?” she said.

I checked my watch, and blushed. “Well, good afternoon anyway.”

Back on Broadway, coffee in one hand, scone in the other, I put my shoulders back, smiled, and walked, and walked, and walked …

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