This post is about mac ‘n cheese. But it’s more than that. It’s about friendship. It’s about love.
We have a friend. Let’s just call him Roby. Could be Robert, could be Toby. Could actually be Moby, but I don’t know Moby. Although I do like his music. But for reasons that will become clear shortly, I’d like to protect our friend’s identity.
I went to a birthday dinner last week for Roby, and during dinner, gifts started to fly across the table. I sat there, paralyzed, realizing that I’d forgotten to get him something. This, after neglecting to make him the mac ‘n cheese I’d promised for assembling two bunk beds I’d ordered on sale from Walmart. That had just a few pieces really, maybe between 500 and 5,000.
Roby is a good friend, you see. Probably the greatest friend you could ask for. Such a close friend that he became ordained by the Universal Life Church and served as the pastor at our wedding. Rodney returned the favor several years later by marrying Roby to his beautiful wife Rihanna (again, protecting the innocent here).
Our wedding day was perfection. We got married on a hidden beach in Mexico on the Pacific Coast, not too far from Zihuatanejo, surrounded by beloved friends and family members.
The alter was simple. It wasn’t a formal affair, just the three of us standing together, flanked by our bridesmaids and groomsmen, our guests a few feet back, fanning themselves in the golden glow of sunset. My heels sank into the mat on the sand, making the height difference between me and Rodney even more awkward and pronounced. At one point I became panicked and confused, thinking that I was marrying Pablo Escobar, but relief swept over me when I looked up from the billowing white suit, and saw Rodney’s smiling face looking down on me.
In between us stood Roby.
From the get-go, he enchanted the audience with his deep baritone. I never realized that he possessed such a voice, but he was clearly inspired, moved by the occasion.
“Good evening…” he boomed from the mic.
What Roby didn’t know was that in the center of his crisply-pressed linen pants, seeped quite a significant pee stain. How big? Bigger than a quarter…maybe not as big as a sand dollar. But pretty sizable given his perch.
I don’t proclaim to know what men do when they’ve finished their business- if there is a thwack-thwack that needs to happen before the underwear gets pulled back into position. Or a gentle shake. But clearly this hadn’t happened. No thwack. No shake.
