Last month sometime I received an invitation to my friend Tom and his
fiancé Keller's wedding shower—a BBQ. Cartoon pig, B-B-Q in a
large font and stuff with real straw. So I'm thinking this is a BBQ—a
cook out. Jeans, tee-shirt, sneakers. Pretty low-key—mostly close
friends (I've known Tom for twenty years now) and what not, being held at
(most likely one of Keller's) a friend's house in West Palm Beach.
The address is along the Intracostal. In West Palm Beach.
In other words, just down the street from the Kennedy Compound (more or
I didn't quite realize this until I was actually driving along the road to
their house and I'm passing the Breaker's Country Club. This is an
exclusive place here. Absolutely georgeous. I turn down the final street
and about a hundred yards down a man in a valet uniform flags me down.
“You here for the party?” he asks. I get this sinking feeling in the pit
of my stomache. I'm wearing sneakers, jeans and a tee-shirt and here's this
guy in a freshly pressed valet uniform, in front of a beautiful home on the
Intracoastal of West Palm Beach (the Gold Coast, da'lin!). I'm seriously
underdressed here. Seriously.
But not much I can do. “Yes,” I said, getting out of the car. I head up
to the front door and enter.
I enter a West Palm Beach social function. Beautiful people in a beautiful
place eating beautiful (and catered) food and being served drinks (full
wetbar) by a crisply uniformed bar tender.
I felt so out of place.
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