I feel like I’ve told this story before. . . I’m becoming one of those people who only share the same tales over and over again. This is compounded by staying at home ALL THE TIME and having a blog. I digress. . .
My one and only brush with greatness (aside from a Woody Harrelson sighting at Rapid Regional airport and dating the bass player of The Mighty Moose), happened in high school. It also happens to be among my most embarrassing moments so you know it’s a winner. In diluted form it goes like this: I was made to endure a mixer at the State FFA convention my sophomore year. It involved being herded onto the floor of an indoor arena with 5,000 other kids and then having to dance with and introduce ourselves to strangers. STRANGERS! If I could’ve died on the spot it would have been a welcomed relief. Instead, I perma-grinned my way through, all the while swearing at my mother in my head. She had refused to save me from this misery so it was, therefore, her fault. Ah, teenaged, introverted, self-conscious angst! Anyway, one of my partners ended up being a very bubbly, super friendly red-neck guy in scuffed boots, a black hunting t-shirt, and flannel. Can you picture it? I judged him immediately and tried to be nice but wanted to shake him as quickly as possible. Imagine my horror/chagrin/embarrassment when at the opening session the next morning that guy was introduced as our National President.
Since then, I try to be fully aware of the sort of people I come in contact with. It helps that I don’t get out much. I don’t do famous. I avert my eyes if well knowns are about. I’ve seen the Mayor on the street and look away. I busied myself with the stroller when the Governor was shaking hands during the last fourth of July parade. I figure I can’t make a fool of myself if they don’t meet me, right? It seemed fool proof.
Then I wrote this. I wanted to remember my feelings at the time (and currently. Oh, dairy, how I miss thee!) and have recorded for all posterity the sacrifices I am making for Gemma. You know, in case one day she turns into an ungratefu, angstyl teenager.
That was it.
There may have been some yelling when I received this comment on that post:
Eric LeMay says:
March 21, 2012 at 9:00 am
Thanks for reading the book—here’s wishing your a scrumptious return to cheese!
WHAT?! The author of my favorite read from 2011 commented on my silly little blog?!
I was dazed. Confused. Star struck.
And very, very embarrassed. You see, I had meant to write in that first post that everyone should read it and then provide a link to buy the book. I wanted to convey how enjoyable it was to read. How it kept me up at night. How it still sits bedside, taunting me in my milklessness. How it inspired me to try and fall in love with a biting goat milk cheese from Humboldt, CA. How I’m pretty sure it changed my life.
So, to put things aright, here’s that link. Buy the book. Eat cheese. Thank me (and Eric) later.