It’s been more than 24 hours and counting … of nearly constant “I told you so” and worse, courtesy of my mortified wife. “Enough already!,” I say. I’ve endured almost as much as her, yet you don’t hear me carping about the mess every other minute.
I’m referring to yesterday of course: the highly anticipated, long awaited afternoon on which my older sister Lisa finally got married. I’m not talking about the black-tie wedding itself; I’ll get to that later. No, today I want to discuss the unfortunate events stemming from our travel arrangements to New Jersey.
As Sophia will tell anyone who’ll listen (and already has, endlessly), the fault lies entirely with me. I’m the one who insisted on checking our principal luggage, including my tuxedo and her stunning gown, instead of carrying all our valuables on the plane as she’d proposed. She feared the airline might lose our suitcase. In contrast I feared lugging fifty pounds of clothes, electronics and accessories along miles of airport corridors, before having to duke it out with rabid competitors for the 737’s precious overhead space. Naturally, my fear prevailed. As I explained: “The chance of the airline losing our bag is infinitesimal, while the odds of me suffering a hernia seem better than even.”
There’s a reason I don’t gamble. Because of Sophia’s late-Friday-afternoon emergency business meeting, we had to reschedule our flight to Saturday morning. Neither of us liked the idea of cutting matters so close, with the wedding set for that afternoon, but thankfully our flight left on time and we even arrived in Newark ten minutes ahead of schedule. From what the airline told us an hour later, our luggage also arrived on time … in Cleveland, where the airline accidentally misdirected it.
The “I told you so”s started immediately. They ramped up substantially after we realized that our options for eleventh-hour replacement clothes had dwindled to a single vintage clothing store purveying formal apparel. Neither of us scored anything nearly as nice as our own duds, but as I made sure to point out: “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
I’m used to my family mocking me, so I didn’t grow overly concerned when they anointed me the laughingstock of the guest list. Hell, if I’d seen a guy wearing a powder blue polyester tuxedo with trousers and coat-sleeves a good two inches short, I’m sure I would’ve howled too.
Nobody from my family laughed at Sophia (openly at least). Even so, she found cause to lob “F” bombs at me with disheartening frequency once the fifth consecutive attendee eyeballed her pink taffeta gown, with its enormous ass-mounted bow, and took her for one of the bridesmaids.