I made a beeline to the bar—a rational move.
First appearances mean so much. My beer was served in a real glass. No plastic cups for my fabulous, newly wedded BFFs. This was a classy kind of gig. I was pretty certain I would fit right in—if I hadn’t been some freeloading stranger walking in off the street.
I wasn’t a true freeloader though. I had brought a congratulatory card with a gift certificate enclosed. I dropped it ceremoniously on the gift table and slowly swiveled my head around, hoping people might note this validation of my attendance.
As I saw the line forming for the dessert table, I realized I missed dinner. If only I actually had been invited, I might have known when the event started. What if dinner had been a planned seating arrangement though? I’d have been SOL, for sure. Maybe my timing was impeccable. I could make do with the dessert bar. Moreover, I wasn’t too late for libations—and a chance to mingle with a hundred or so total strangers.
I joined a group around a fire pit on the outdoor patio and found myself fitting in more easily than expected. No one questioned me or my relationship to the bride and groom. While this eased the execution of my plan, I was a tad disappointed I didn’t need to conjure up any of the prefabricated stories I’d prepared on the drive there. (My name: Shelly. My relationship to the new couple: Girlfriend of Jim Miller, who used to work with the groom. Where: Hmm. I can’t remember—it was years ago. I’d have to ask him. Wow, the bride’s gown is gorgeous, don’t you think?)
I struck up a conversation with a trio of young men who advised me on the best way to illegally stream movies. Nice guys, if not a bit shady. I asked them to snap a picture of me with my new iPhone camera, which I didn’t yet know how to use. I hoisted my glass of beer and smiled at the camera, not realizing it wouldn’t be the last photo taken of me that night.
When I returned to the fire pit, another man smiled at me. “Having a good time?” he asked.
I nodded. “Great reception! I’ve never seen the bride and groom look so happy.” True statement.
He nodded back. “I’m still looking for a sign about it all,” he said. “I haven’t been given one yet, but I’ve been looking as closely as I can, to the atmosphere, to the stars, and to the birds.” As he continued to profess these powers in the universe and provided a litany of strange personal encounters with stars and birds, I grew confused and concerned. Was he extremely spiritual or just extremely crazy? My instincts leaned toward “crazy.”
“Uh-huh. Hey, excuse me,” I finally said. “I see someone I need to talk to.” Which would have been anyone but him.
Minutes later, while enjoying a conversation with a handsome, younger, and seemingly more stable guy, I turned to see the bride approaching us, looking eager to join the discussion. I backed away, avoiding her glance, and headed back inside.
As I watched people swinging it on the dance floor, I deliberated asking someone to dance. The thought terrified me, which made it all the more an obligatory move. I narrowed down my most obvious choices to the nice-looking younger guy by the fire pit or the dude searching for signs from the stars and birds.
I hadn’t danced with a stranger in how long? A decade? As my stomach rolled, the DJ made the last call for all single women to join in the bouquet toss. I realized this wasn’t only an easy out from dancing but also that a shot of the backs of a group of unidentifiable women, lunging for the spray of flowers, would be a terrific photo op. I hurried over, stationing myself a good twenty yards behind the line of waiting women. I pulled out my iPhone just as I heard the DJ begin his countdown.
Before I could manage to find my new phone’s camera setting, I heard a collective rush of shouts, and then—silence. I looked up to see the crowd of zealous single women, as well as nearly every wedding guest in the room, staring at me.
I followed the direction of their glances. I looked down. Apparently, the bride was a former softball pitcher with a hell of an arm. Her throw landed the bouquet far past its intended aim. It was lying two inches from my right foot.
My eyes darted around the room, which had fallen so quiet you could hear my chin drop. All eyes were focused on me. I had no choice, really. I bent down, picked up the bouquet, and clutched it. I smiled stupidly.
As cameras flashed, my heart rate quickened. I frantically contemplated what to do next. If all went according to normal wedding reception protocol, I knew I’d soon find myself posing for more photos: with a garter-snatching stranger feeling his way up my thigh. It was a halfway appealing notion, but I was pretty sure I’d rather salvage the bit of anonymity I had left.
A little girl came to my rescue. She tugged at my blouse, pointed at the bouquet, and said, “Can I have that?”
I smiled down at my small savior and said, “Honey, it’s all yours.” I thrust the flowers in her hands and walked straight to the exit, pausing only to deposit my half-finished beer at the bar.
“I just accidentally caught the bouquet,” I told the bartender. “Probably a good time for me to leave.”
As I headed to the parking lot, I envisioned the bride and groom at their gift-opening party the next day, watching a replay of their wedding video. When they got to the bouquet toss, they would look at each other in squinted confusion. “Who is that woman? Wait, you mean you don’t know her either?”
Although I didn’t remain inconspicuous, I figured I did stay anonymous, at least until a discovery the next day when I posted my story and a photo online. Here’s another little hint about wedding-crashing: It’s best to not inadvertently be Facebook friends with the owner of the reception hall.
My anonymity was completely blown after I agreed, months later, to be interviewed about my experience on the TV news show 20/20. When the episode aired, I bit off half my fingernails as I found myself included with a group of criminals and miscreants in a segment titled The Moochers. Rather than proving to be a cautionary tale (which wouldn’t have been my first time), I was relieved that, mostly due to my wedding gift, I appeared to be the moral of this story.
“If you must crash a wedding,” the voiceover advised, “crash with class.”
Feeling redeemed, I managed to connect with the bride and groom, Mike and Helen (who was indeed a former softball player). They proved to be a good-natured couple, who remembered my unsigned card and gift. I’d chosen that card very thoughtfully. The pre-printed text read: “A toast to good friends: To a great couple, to your love, your future, and your happiness… and to the friendship that will keep us close always.”
Below, I scrawled: “Thanks for an evening none of us will ever forget.”
Wasn’t that the truth.
Chapter 3:
THE PRINCESS AND THE PEE
I never set foot inside a tent until I was in college. And those trips entailed a more eager and experienced companion doing all the work while I sat and forged my enthusiasm by working my way through a cooler of beer. On one of these outings, we actually “borrowed” a cardboard beer display, shaped like a throne, from a carryout. I sat on it all weekend around the campfire and earned the ironic nickname “Sherry, Queen of Campers.”
Yet camping was never my thing. I spent the next decade acquainting myself with hotel bars, air-conditioning, and room service. They were the best of times.
Meanwhile, I married and procreated. And when Son #2 was a mere rugrat, he expressed a burning desire to go tent-camping. His father and I cringed but finally caved. We were indulgent, albeit temporarily insane, parents.
That single night reinforced the most awful aspects of camping memories I had suppressed, or at least never experienced sober. I encouraged Son #2 to join the Boy Scouts. He went on to become an Eagle Scout, finding his own happy arena for overnight nature excursions and leaving me off the obligatory camping hook.
Camping never again crossed my mind until The 52/52 Project clouded my judgment. I reluctantly decided to traipse out one night, alone, with a borrowed tent, a new sleeping bag, a can of mosquito repellent, and an assortment of campf
ire food. S’mores and Jiffy Pop, I prayed, would be the night’s saving grace.
Important note: I agonized over the idea of bringing a six-pack of beer. While this had been my college routine and might have made for a more entertaining evening, it would also necessitate several nighttime expeditions to the bathroom. A campsite “bathroom” was obviously a misnomer. A porta potty was in no way an actual room and did not allow for any type of bath—except for the occasional backsplash from a full pit toilet.
My camping-savvy friend, Kim, suggested I try out Mary Jane Thurston State Park. She noted it had a beautiful riverside campground and, being just fifteen minutes away, it wouldn’t necessitate much planning or travel. The added bonus: If necessary, I could make a quick escape back home.
I climbed out of my car, dragged my equipment down the trail, and surveyed the campground. The only other campers I spied were located directly next to my assigned site. Three adult men, all of them big bare-chested beasts, roamed about a makeshift compound of tents and tarps.
I watched them watching me. Just one thought came to mind: the movie Deliverance. Bringing along a baseball bat to keep at my side while I slept, as Son #1 suggested, might have been a wise move after all. Sadly, my only weapons of defense were a Bic grill lighter and a marshmallow fork.
I practiced my jabbing moves with the fork and tried to not make eye contact.
Finally, I spotted a woman and three children in the group. I blew out a relieved whisper of a sigh. There weren’t any psychotic women in Deliverance, were there?
Pushing aside my paranoia, I focused on putting up my tent. This proved to be the easiest portion of the trip, thanks to Kim, who had walked me through a trial run that morning. Other than finding myself left with four seemingly superfluous stakes and a rain-fly I had no idea how to attach, I managed to build a shelter of sorts. I prayed the meteorologists were mistaken with their prediction of a storm.
The next step, as I watched the sun disappear below the horizon, was making a fire. Kim had also offered me a load of firewood and a propane fire-starter. I declined, ensuring her with much (feigned) confidence that I planned to rough it. Anything else was cheating, right? I was camping in a wooded state park, for God’s sake. Certainly I could collect enough timber to build a fire. My son, the Eagle Scout, had assured me a ten year old could manage that.
I should probably have recalled the previous night’s torrential downpour, which resulted in more than four inches of rain. The only pieces of wood I spied that weren’t water-logged lay several feet off any path. Twice, I stepped through the jungle to grab some, until I realized I was knee-deep in red-stemmed, three-leaved plants. I wasn’t much of a camper, yet I did fancy myself a backyard gardener. I realized, too late, that I had stepped through a healthy crop of poison ivy.
Regardless of the enflamed and itchy nightmare I’d deal with later, I stayed focused on the task at hand. I scrounged an armful of somewhat dry twigs and driftwood from the riverbank. I piled them, pyramid-style, in the fire ring, and flicked my Bic lighter.
My fire-starting attempt lasted, oh, about forty-five minutes—with nary a spark.
I finally decided a hot dog, slightly singed over the flame of my lighter, would need to suffice as dinner.
With no campfire to keep away the mosquitos, I applied another layer of repellant to every inch of my being. Given the amount of deet my skin absorbed that night, I guessed I would likely die a horrific death within weeks.
Or maybe I would die much sooner: Since the creepiest guy of all from the site twenty yards over suddenly appeared at my side.
I stepped back and gripped my Bic.
“Hey,” he said, sporting a semi-toothless smile. “Looks like you’re having a tough time over here. Need any help?”
I didn’t need any help. I was fully (in)capable all on my own. But how did one say no to a potential psycho-killer? It would be rude. And from what I recalled, rudeness didn’t get the victims in Deliverance anywhere.
I stood, several yards away, as he huffed and he puffed. Given my pitiful quantity and quality of firewood, even the mightiest of mountain men was sure to struggle with this task. Meanwhile, with one of my hands grasping my fork and the other wielding my lighter, we carried on a lengthy conversation.
“Herbert” eventually got the fire started. And…he turned out to be the nicest guy ever.
Perhaps fire-building wasn’t the biggest lesson I learned that night.
I feared, left to my own devices, the campfire would soon fizzle out. I hurriedly cooked and scarfed down a hot dog, a can of beans, a pan of Jiffy Pop (half-popped and half-burnt, as always), and two S’mores. All within fifteen minutes.
As I finished off the food and began to feel queasy, I was struck with a sudden thought: What next? After gorging oneself on junk food, and having no companions or alcohol to fuel the night, what else—besides reapplying mosquito repellant (which I sprayed on myself three more times)—did one do while camping?
Reciting (to no one but myself) the standard fare of campsite ghost stories was out of the picture. The very real prospect of wild storms, wild animals, and wild men was frightening enough. Sure, Herbert and the other campers in the commune next door might be friendly enough, but legend had it that Ted Bundy and a host of other serial killers passed off as charming, too.
So, I conjured up every camping song I could recall. Although my Girl Scout career ended abruptly when I was kicked out of my troop at the age of ten, before we ever actually camped, I still remembered a few of the songs we sang in a circle in our school basement. I ran, silently, through refrains of “Found a Peanut” and “The Other Day, I Met a Bear.” I ended with the college camping favorite of “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer” until it made me thirsty and a bit weepy that I didn’t have a Miller 64 close at hand.
Once I ran out of songs and the fire died, I crawled into my tent. And there I lay awake, tossing and turning, until nearly sunrise.
Sleep was out of the question for many reasons. The heat and humidity of summer tent-camping was akin to sleeping in a greenhouse. I was sweaty, dirty, and stinky. The threat of storms remained constant. I tried to ignore the occasional cymbal crashes of thunder, although even that was preferable to hearing the strums of a banjo.
I still harbored a tiny suspicion that one of my Deliverance neighbors might tie me up and make me squeal like a pig.
Plus, even with a sleeping bag and foam pad, I could still feel every single stone in the ground below me. Although once the Ironic Queen of Campers, I was not The Princess and the Pea—I was far too wimpy and whiny.
However, the Princess and the Pee might have been more accurate. Because after I fought the need all night to run to the porta potty, my bladder remained a full water balloon waiting to burst.
As soon as the morning sun began streaming through the thin walls of my tent, I climbed out and began breaking camp. After all, I was a busy, professional-type person. I had places to go and things to do.
My first task would be the pursuit of indoor plumbing. I figured the Queen of Campers deserved a Royal Flush.
Chapter 4:
OF BUNNIES AND BATTERIES
Sex Ed in the seventies proved to be an enlightening experience, especially for a young girl at a Catholic grade school. I wandered away from that single lesson feeling fairly clear about the basics, but confused about where exactly my “pistil” was hidden and how a male “stamen” might get there to fertilize it.
Thankfully, the nun teaching the class assured us girls we wouldn’t have to worry about sex until our wedding night. Those nuns were mighty strict, but they had a hell of a sense of humor.
Most people I knew received their real sex education in hushed circles on the school playground and later through more hands-on experience in parked cars. There, on darkened streets, many lingering questions were finally answered. These exploits were often accompanied by new questions, such as, “Oh, shit, did that condom just break?”
Catholic sex educa
tion aside, I learned enough over the years to enjoy a “romantic” life. Somehow, though, I made it to my fifties before ever stepping foot in an adult bookstore.
One goal of The 52/52 Project was learning about the world around me. This particular objective was not only to visit an adult bookstore—or sex shop, to be more accurate, since books composed a tiny part of the inventory—but also to engage fully in the shopping experience. And, like many of my challenges, this one mandated that I could bring no one along for (im)moral support.
As the saying goes, “You’re never too old to learn something new.” Aside from the embarrassment I envisioned, my biggest fear was that this new information was coming too late in the game for me to put to good use.
What I later learned was that there were your garden variety “Adultmarts,” and then there were trucker-style sex shops. Apparently, the one I chose for convenience, located just off the turnpike exit near the airport, was the latter.
I wandered the store for about ten minutes, soaking up the sights. The full-color photos on the packaging required little imagination. Many of them featured wide open legs, wide open mouths, and freakishly big male appendages.
The only thing bigger and wider might have been my eyes. I may have been fifty-two, but I giggled as awkwardly as a twelve year old.
I stifled my snickers. I had a serious research project to undertake. I needed to know more.
The twenty-something androgynous store clerk proved chatty and eager to pass along his knowledge. He seemed well versed, either by his training or by his own hard-wired interests, in personal entertainment for both genders. I found myself engaged in the longest, most graphic conversation I have ever had with a complete stranger. Or with anyone. In my entire life.
I shook off my awkwardness, blinked, and cleared my throat. “So, um, what are your best-selling items for women?”
Finding My Badass Self Page 2