I attended my 4th wedding of 2015 this past weekend. I’m done for the calendar year, I think. I should market my services for being the perfect wedding date: I’m a pro. I clean-up nicely, have good table manners, can converse politely and animatedly on a variety of topics, drink moderately and dance charmingly. I listen to the speeches attentively, and I laugh at all the jokes. I never catch the bouquet.
This past wedding was a great one. Small, in a deluxe boutique hotel in the mountains. The guests were all beautiful and socially inclined. Booze flowed, laughter tinkled, lots of dancing. Lots and lots and lots of dancing.
At 2:30am, I stumbled back to my gorgeous hotel room, slightly peeved that I was going to bed alone: that hotel room was made for passionate sex. 4-poster mahogany bed, a shower large enough to do cartwheels in, a clawfoot bathtub, marble counter tops, mirrors, an elegant balcony… Sulking, I threw myself onto the beautiful bed, to recoup sufficient energy to remove my sexy red shoes. That’s when I noticed that there was a covered platter and a card on the night table next to me. I lifted the cover, to a beautifully arranged dish of French macaroons and chocolate sauce. Confused, I nibbled on one, as I opened the card next to the dish.
Pour témoigner de notre bonheur à l’occasion de travailler conjointement.
Printed on the beautiful hotel stationery.
A small token to demonstrate our delight at our impending collaboration.
I pondered the card, as I ate a second, then a third, macaroon. My name is not Mme Laboeuf. None of the guests at the wedding were called Mme Laboeuf. The card was unsigned. The only “collaboration” I could think of requiring macaroons to be delivered to a hotel room during the wee hours of the night was the kind of one-on-one “collaboration” that I wished I could partake in.
I realized all that dancing had made me hungry. I finished the macaroons.
Full of new-found energy, I changed shoes into flats, took the card with me, and went down to the reception desk. “Excuse me, I am not Mme Laboeuf, I think you had the macaroons delivered to the wrong room. They were delicious.”
On that note, I went back to the wedding reception and partied another 45 minutes before finally calling it a night.