Anyway, that particular night, after securing my precious, delicious cargo, I slipped on the ice next to Fletch’s truck. I slid directly beneath the passenger side, where I laughed myself into an asthma attack because I was so pleased at having the foresight to save my Super-steak with extra queso and sour cream, despite ripping my pants and banging my head.
I stayed under the truck eating my burrito, while Fletch craned his neck all over the place trying to figure out where I might have gone. When he finally found me under the truck, he assumed I was dead, not happily cramming my cheeks with carne asada.
Handful.
I ended the evening by blowing my nose on his tie because “it looked all soft and flannel-y.”
FYI, this is why it took me eleven years to graduate. [And, likely, eight years before he agreed to get married.]
I digest Fletch’s news for a moment. “I… guess that makes sense. But it seems like they should be giving this award to an astronaut or something, not me.”
Fletch rolls his eyes. “Purdue has surprisingly few astronauts in the Liberal Arts department.”
I reply, “This lack of critical thinking skills is exactly what leads me to believe I don’t deserve any kind of award.” Fletch leaves the kitchen and begins to head back towards his office while I’m left to review supporting documentation for my major award. “Hey, honey—wait. The information packet says something about a ceremony and a dinner and stuff. I don’t have to go, do I?”
Fletch shakes his head. “Of course not. If you don’t mind disappointing Joanna, you’re welcome to stay home.”
Oh! Hoisted on my own petard!
“Wow. You rarely do guilt, but when you do, it’s a doozy.” Seriously, ouch. I’m very protective of Joanna and the idea of upsetting her intentionally is far too much to bear. “Looks like we’re going to the award ceremony.”
“Cheer up!” he replies. “It’ll be fun. You eat some rubber chicken, you get your picture taken, and you give a little speech. How hard can it be?”
I guess we’ll find out.
Four months before the ceremony, I think: I should get a head start on that speech.
Three months before the ceremony: Maybe I should jot a few thoughts down before it’s April and I’m slammed with pre-book-launch publicity in May.
Two months before the ceremony: Ooh! Snow! I’m not going to write a speech today. Imma build a fortress!
One month before the ceremony: I should think about that speech.
One week before the ceremony: I should work on that speech, but my desk is so messy and I have all these dog pictures to post…
One day before the ceremony: Well, shit.
Okay, I’m writing this.
I can do this.
I mean, I write for a living, yes?
I click open a Word document and I adjust all my settings. I’m unable to think about writing until I have the font set to Bookman Old Style, 12 point, double-spaced. I’m actually a bit of a lunatic about this and I won’t even read any document online until I convert it to this format.
Ready, okay.
I have to write the keynote address right now. There’s no more I’ll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow is too late.
As there are three other recipients, this speech can’t be all about me. Although the truth is I’m secretly disappointed at being one of the Outstanding Alumni and not THE Outstanding alumnus, [If I’m getting an award I don’t deserve, then I should be the only one who gets it.] yet this takes some of the pressure off me.
Let me just Google these other recipients’ names and…
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
The more I dig into my peers’ backgrounds, the sicker I feel. If my Google-fu is strong (and it is), it would appear that the first gentleman also getting recognized has devoted his life to the social justice surrounding capital punishment. He’s a Sociology Professor and Department Chair at a huge university.
Yes, sure, I know all about that. I can talk at length about the Grisham novel I just read on that very subject.
Argh.
The second guy I research is… oh, goddamn it, he’s an Ambassador. So, unlike me, he was actually able to find a job in our shared major of Political Science. That’s just awesome and I don’t feel like a dick at all. And certainly I’m not intimidated or anything. I’m just going to be all, “Hey, Ambassador, my claim to fame is swearing at Alec Baldwin at a charity event. Bet THAT never happened to you while you were out there ambassador-ing.”
Jesus Christ, this night is going to be a disaster. I don’t belong with these people. I’m not worthy. Yeah, I’ve written some books that people enjoy but they’re not, like, literature or anything.
I freak out for a little while longer until my pragmatic side takes over.
You know what?
I’m psyching myself out and if I don’t finish this speech, I won’t have time to go tanning or get my nails done. Then I’ll be at the ceremony feeling inadequate AND unkempt.
At least I can be kempt. I may be a dumbass, but I’m a well-groomed dumbass and that’s half the battle.
Fine, moving on. I search for the last recipient and I see she’s a writer, too. Okay, cool. I can get down with that. I certainly identify with another writer, yes?
Oh, wait. Says here she’s a Pulitzer Prize winner and the Washington Bureau Chief for The New York Times.
Terrific. I’ll be sure to inquire if she’s read my recent think piece on Card Sharks.
I am so screwed.
“That you?” Fletch calls from the bedroom.
“I’m home,” I say, as I walk down the hallway to the master. I have a seat while he packs. When
