Winging It

We were in North Carolina. The women had more or less synchronized, and they're both hammered by the mal de femme. So they sent me and Jon out with specific instructions.

So Jon and I were standing there, two magna cum laudes from Duke Divinity School, staring dumbly at a solid wall of pastel packages. There were, we later worked out, 53,452 different permutations of brand, style, size, absorbancy, and package color.

This was in the time before cell phones were quite common, so we were having to ask each other. "Does 'purple' mean 'off-violet,' or 'aggressively grape'?" "By 'green' does she mean 'Green Bay Packers green' or 'Boston Celtics green' or 'Philadelphia Eagles green'?"

And the longer you stare, the more static gets into your head until you've quite forgotten the brand name. "Was it 'Always' or 'Evermore'? I think it was either 'StayFree' in the fuschia package or 'Liberation' in the chartreuse." 

The only thing that could've made it more humiliating of course would have been the appearance of a drop dead gorgeous woman walking down the aisle.

She was a brunette.

As she passed behind us, bathed in a seductive floral perfume, and our general demeanor reflected that of men consigned to the third circle of hell, Jon made the only comment that could be made:

"You know, man, I'm not sold on wings."

Comments

[Lizzie O'Cayce]

Brilliant!

[Kathy]

Mine comes with trivia printed on the backing strip. No joke.