One step ahead.

It's always sad when I make a joke that is so witty and intelligent that it goes RIGHT over the head of my intended audience. I suppose my humor is too high-brow for the proletariat. Today I went to Nordstrom because I wanted a new pair of khaki pants. My body having the cartoonish proportions that it does, I of course need to have all my pants tailored. The tailor, awkwardly gripping my firm buttocks in her wrinkled hands, shook her head and said "Tsk, tsk."

Connor: What is it?
Fanny McPhee: Is this really the smallest waist size we have?
Connor: Yes. (Tries to swat her hand off my ass... unsuccessfully)
Fanny McPhee: What do you think about them?
Connor: They still look too big on me.
Fanny McPhee: We can take them in a bit, but not too much. Maybe you'll grow into them.
(She looks up at me, eyes narrowing.)
Fanny McPhee: How old are you?
Connor: Twenty-seven.
(This answer seems to satisfy her.)
Fanny McPhee: You still have time to fill out. My son used to be just your size. Not anymore though. They used to call him 'Stick'.
Connor: Now he's more like a 'Branch'?
(Internally, I am quite pleased at my witty wordplay. This was a funny comment! I seek approval from Mrs. Touchy Tailor. She cocks her head at me, confused.)
Fanny McPhee: 'Stick'. (Holds up a vertical finger as if I am a retard. Tries to mime a stick.) You know? Thin like a stick.
(There is an awkward pause consisting of unblinking eye contact.)
Connor: I must not have understood that initially.

Polite conversation

I had my Boeing "new hire" orientation today. Being a social butterfly, I immediately got acquainted with the young people at my table. There's me, Sean, a girl named Sammy, and another girl named Meghan (who will work in the same group as me). I was excited, because I'm trying very hard to establish a new set of friends that you might find on a sitcom. Classic shows like Seinfeld or Friends always have a balance of men and women.

Sean: Hey, we should all meet up tonight and get drinks.
Sammy: Yeah, that sounds like fun!
Me: Count me in.

(Sammy stands up and leans forward to collect her papers. I accidentally do a quick boob stare, which I typically try very hard to avoid. I look down abruptly as Sammy catches my gaze at the last second.)

Internal Monologue: Oh shit! She just saw you staring at her chest. Wait... calm down. Maybe she didn't. Is she glaring?

(Quick glance upwards. Sammy is glaring. Glance away again.)

Internal Monologue: She DID see me! I gotta salvage this or else I'm going to lose my new friends. Say something to break the tension!! QUICKLY!!!
Connor: Nice set of cannons, Sammy.
(Collective gasps at the table.)
Internal Monologue: Nice recovery.

Garters galore!

I've gone to a lot of weddings. I've been a groomsman multiple times (and a groom twice before, but let's keep that hush-hush). For some reason, as soon as my collective group of friends graduated from college, they all decided to get hitched and start having babies. Immediately. At 26, the vast majority of my friends are all married. This is confusing, because shows like Friends, How I Met Your Mother, and basically every other sitcom all seem to indicate that people don't find true love until well into their 30s. Is it possible that television is lying to me?

Anyways, I've noticed that a higher power seems to be sending me a message at all these events. I have caught the garter at FOUR different weddings. That's a lot. And let me also stress that I'm not diving across crowded tables to catch these airborne metaphors of future commitment. They fly through the air and land gracefully in my hands. One of them even struck me in the face.

So at this most recent wedding, I again had the garter go soaring in a tidy arc and land with a little plop into my outstretched palm. I never even moved from my initial spot on the floor. The hand of fate, perhaps? Anyways, what typically happens in a reception at this point is that the man who catches the garter puts it on the leg of the woman who caught the bouquet. As ancient legend goes, the higher you place the garter, the better luck the bride and groom will have in their marriage. It's basically a transparent opportunity for men to feel up the leg of a pretty girl. I personally find this ritual abhorrent, but I am nothing if not a traditionalist. So with a heavy heart, I resigned myself to the unwanted task of sliding a garter up a bridesmaid's leg. Curses!

But then, to my surprise, the crowd dispersed and the band started up again. I was confused. And when I get confused, I cry easily. Fighting back the tears, I ran up to the bridesmaid. "What's the situation? Are we going to partake in this time-honored tradition in just a few minutes?" is the sentence that formed in my head. But what I really said was, "WHAT THE FUCK?! Why am I not touching you right now?!" My date glowered at me from a corner as she slipped a knife up her sleeve and began moving towards the bridesmaid; murderous intent glinting in her darkened eyes.

Fearing for the bridesmaid's life at the hands of my delightful (though occasionally violent) lady companion, I went up to the bride herself to get to the bottom of this mystery. Sheepishly, the bride informed me that they weren't doing the whole "slide the garter up the leg" bit. I was shocked and appalled. This is the conversation that followed:

Connor: So... I'm not going to put this on anyone?
Bride: No, we decided not to do that.
Connor (brief pause for mental processing): So, what should I do with this?
Bride: I don't know. Whatever you want.
Connor: What would I want with your garter?
Bride: Ummm... I don't know.
(Long awkward pause.)
Connor: So... do you want it back?
Bride: Uh. Ok.