It was shortly after we had graduated college, but long enough after that momentous occasion that I had bought my own shoe box and was living alone somewhere close enough to the nice part of town, but just on the edge of where a man could get a hooker on a Saturday night--if he wanted one--really quickly and easily. I spent a lot of time on the Chicago Community Policing web site while I lived in that apartment, tallying the counts of solicitation. And mail fraud. A lot of mail fraud in my part of town. Hookers like letters too, I suppose.
That summer, I knew that pretty much all of my friends had been invited to a certain friend's wedding. I didn't feel too left out because personally, he was down with Jesus just a little too much for me. (And that's saying a lot for someone with 17 years of Catholic education. 18 if you count my year with the Lutherans. We won't get into that transubstantiation thing. )
Anyhow, there I was one afternoon at my mailbox at my shoe box, checking the mail. A big envelope pops out addressed to me. Mail, any sort of mail, is exciting to a 25 year old. It implies adulthood. Independence. I HAVE MY OWN ADDRESS. Yes.
I can tell it's an invitation of some kind and I start wondering exactly how many weddings I'll have to go to that summer because this is getting out of hand. I can only afford so many blenders.
The invitation is properly done. On the outside envelope, there's just my name and my address. On the inside envelope, they've written my name in crisp and pretty cursive letters. They've written my name and "and guest."
The "and guest" part has been crossed out, just as crisply, but not as prettily.
That summer, I knew that pretty much all of my friends had been invited to a certain friend's wedding. I didn't feel too left out because personally, he was down with Jesus just a little too much for me. (And that's saying a lot for someone with 17 years of Catholic education. 18 if you count my year with the Lutherans. We won't get into that transubstantiation thing. )
Anyhow, there I was one afternoon at my mailbox at my shoe box, checking the mail. A big envelope pops out addressed to me. Mail, any sort of mail, is exciting to a 25 year old. It implies adulthood. Independence. I HAVE MY OWN ADDRESS. Yes.
I can tell it's an invitation of some kind and I start wondering exactly how many weddings I'll have to go to that summer because this is getting out of hand. I can only afford so many blenders.
The invitation is properly done. On the outside envelope, there's just my name and my address. On the inside envelope, they've written my name in crisp and pretty cursive letters. They've written my name and "and guest."
The "and guest" part has been crossed out, just as crisply, but not as prettily.
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