Saturday night, during service at my third Annual Pretentious Private Preparatory School Gala, I took 26,527 steps.
On a normal day, I barely hit 5000.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the fickle god of Banquet Serving (Steve) pointed down from the balcony and decreed “You shall run!”
And from 3:30 to 11:10 I ran.
For a little over seven hours, the picture in your mind that you should be carrying insofar as my tale is of black-and-white-wearing servants prowling the Silent Auction area for empty wine/champagne/cocktail glasses, beer bottles, and crushed napkins; smilingly passing trays of champagne; walking ever so briskly with covered plates of food into a room with 44 tables of eight.
It was everything I suspected it would be; and while I can say that I was brisk, accommodating, and good-natured throughout, I stored up a million tiny details of the smug, glad-handing and insecure people moving in that particular circle.
For instance, there was a woman there in a strapless evening gown whose strapless bra rode higher than the back of her dress all evening. I found it interesting that neither her husband nor the host of similarly clad women who certainly looked and sounded to be her friends told her. Surely they noticed. The dress was black. The bra was a neutral. Why didn't they tell her?
I passed “Italian Egg Rolls” (phyllo dough wrapped around Italian sausage, roasted red peppers, spinach and some cheese I no longer remember) to two married men who did not stop discussing the shape of a woman that wasn't present. Aside from the surprisingly immature words from these men, I was disturbed that they spoke as if I wasn't there. They seemed not to notice that there was a woman holding the tray they were eating from.
Ah, but who cares? I was paid in cash.
And after the cash? The deluge.
Erin hosted an “after” party, and the first meeting of the Right Tired Knights of Whatever You Got settled on to the couches, chairs, and floor of Erin’s Little House in the Hood.
Details are now sketchy, but I’m pretty sure we were working on a new super hero at one time: The Budger. Based on the opinion of my grandfather for a neighbor who claimed grandpa’s fence was on his land, The Budger became loud, drunken fodder for our hyperactive minds.
The Budger is a bitter old coot, skinny and stooped, likely to liberate you of your cigarette lighter or some small decorative item on his way out the door of your house. He used to work as a housing inspector but now dedicates his daylight hours to watching the neighborhood, for which 90% of his neighborhood is glad.
But what is The Budger's super power?
The Budger cruises those 10-Item-Or-Less aisles in the supermarkets. Got 11 items? The Budger doesn’t want to hear about it. You’ll just need to move along.
He also enforces societal mores such as butting in line.
There is no butting in line, and no, you can’t “save” a spot either, either. Unless it’s for your mom. Or your dad. But that’s it.
I’m sorry. Those are the rules.
And so we went, my iPod plugged into Erin’s stereo (at her request, of course), our bruised (me), blistered (April), sore (everyone) bodies relaxing. We laughed the exhausted laugh of the overworked, and it was good.
I was home by 4:00.
My name is Pearl, and I took 26, 527 steps* while at work Saturday.
*They were giving away pedometers at work last week.
I’m thinking that at the next “event”, there should be a pool to benefit the person who has taken the most steps that evening. There would have to be rules against shaking your leg unnecessarily or taking the pedometer off and jostling it to jack up the count, but I think something could be arranged, don’t you?
But what could the prize be?
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