By “meeting” I mean, “I hope to be meeting David Sedaris this Sunday when I go to his lecture in Boston.” The sweat beads are already pouring down my bleached mustache. I’ve never been to an author’s event before, so I’ve been doing some prep work and researching on how David (I decided we need to be on a first name basis if we are going to be best friends) interacts with his readers. By all appearances he seems to a nice guy, a gentleman, someone who is concerned with the well-being of his readers. He really cares. OR he is a master illusionist, like the old man in The Prestige who carried the giant fishbowl between his legs. He commits to the act. Even if that’s true, I still find myself in an utter panic trying to figure out what I’m going to wear. Would he like my gold sparkle oxfords or the zebra ones? He could find them hellacious, daring, or even delightfully tacky. Either way, it could make or break our trip to Cabo together, where we share laughs in slow motion over breezy exotic music you hear in those resort commercials.
Regardless of what I’m wearing, even if it’s evening ball gown, no amount of unique style and flare could set me apart from the crowd of adoring fans better than my nervous stammer. I would call it a stutter, but that implies that you might have some control over your life. A stammer is for hillbillies in the back woods, licking their lips as you lotion your elbows, repeating words in incoherent sentences. It’s something I can’t really help, but I’m hoping it won’t get me escorted from the premises.
I’ll let you guys know how it goes, but I think as long as you have the news on, you’ll be able to get the gist.