In the year of ten-thousand weddings, I RSVP’d to a ceremony in Nashville, Tennessee. The night before the nuptials, I was invited to a “Southern BBQ.” The dress-code was listed as “country casual.” Well, believe it or not, due to an irrational fear of being spit roasted, I had never been to a barbecue before. I also had no clothes in my closet that could be described as “country” or “casual.”
Wrecked that I might not find an outfit, at the last minute, I found a thrift store that specialized in farm fashion. Purchasing overalls, boots, and a plaid shirt, I knew there was only one piece missing. If I stood any chance of looking like I just got off a tractor, I would need a college football cap.
As it turned out, the main event was more like “a Southern BBQ/cocktail mixer in the richest county in Tennessee.” Everyone was dressed to the nines, and I looked like Bridget Jones in a Playboy bunny outfit. I was so off the mark, they almost didn’t let me in at the front door. “But I am the MC!” I pleaded.