‘Like a shitfaced Fred Flintstone’
Well, I managed to make a fool of myself again. Two nights ago, Cindy and I were sitting at a steakhouse in Arizona (where I had a SALAD for dinner), and a group of people walked by on their way out of the restaurant. One of them was Wilma Mathews, a woman I’ve known for 20 years.
Wilma was a mentor to me both professionally and personally when I was breaking into the communications business AND going through a rocky time in my personal life (read: divorce). She is one of the wisest, funniest, and greatest people I know. And she lives in Arizona.
So, naturally, I got excited. And I’d had some wine on an empty stomach (salad does NOT count as food). Wilma’s group was far away from us, the restaurant was crowded, and I was afraid she’d get in a car and drive away before I could say hi. So, the way my wife Cindy tells it:
“You leaped out of your seat, almost knocked over a waitress, and went storming after her, elbowing people out of the way, shouting ‘WILMA!!!! WILMA!!!!! WILMA!!!!’ like a shitfaced Fred Flintstone.”
Well, I finally got through the crowds and caught up to Wilma in the parking lot. Hearing me bellowing “WILMA,” she turned around . . . and it wasn’t Wilma. I swear to God, it was her double. Her entire group looked at me like I was a serial rapist. “Oh, sorry, wrong person,” I said.
Then I had to walk back into the restaurant, past all the people I had just bowled over, most of whom were glaring at me.
“Sorry . . . sorry . . . sorry . . .thought I saw an old friend . . . sorry . . . sorry,” I kept mumbling, all the way back to my table.
Then I had to sit down and finish my god damned salad. What a spectacle.