I’ve told you before but will remind you again: I’m a farm boy.
Shortly after our wedding, I surprised Cheryl with two tickets to the theater in Detroit, which was about an hour and a half from our home. The show I’d chosen was an obscure one called Les Miserables’, which I’ve since learned is French for “Joe will hate this.”
I don’t want to give away my age, but this was before the days of GPS. We took my motor-car with only a map. Back then these were printed on a thing called paper. You kids wouldn’t understand.
Because I’m a bear-of-little-brain, I missed my turn and soon found myself circling a neighborhood I’d describe as “less than optimal for people headed to the theater.”
I was horrified when I turned a corner and saw a woman walking alone in this neighborhood in a shiny formal red dress. She was over-the-top decked out with her outfit and poofy hair. For a second, I thought about asking her if she needed a ride, since it was clear that she must be walking to the theater. Maybe she could help with directions. For some reason…probably because I didn’t know the neighborhood, I decided to drive on.
…another ten minutes, and still no sign of our theater.
BUT, turning yet another corner, I spotted the same woman again. This time, she was standing on the curb, waiting for traffic to clear.
Me: Let’s follow her. She knows where the theater is.
Cheryl: She knows where something is.
I slowed the car.
Cheryl: What are you doing?
Me: I told you already; I’m going to see what direction this woman goes.
Cheryl, confused: Why would we do that?
Me: Look at her. She’s got to be headed to the theater! I’m sick of driving in circles.
Cheryl: Are you kidding me?
Cheryl: Really? She’s a hooker!
My head nearly swivels off as I try to get a better look, like I’ve just discovered a baby Zebra in the corner of the pen at the zoo.
Me: Wow! Really? THAT’S a hooker?
Cheryl: Holy S%$!, Joe. Pull away, before she thinks we want a threesome.
I drive. We finally find the theater. I hate the show, except the one song where they’re all getting drunk. By intermission, I want to be drunk, too. We head for the concession area.
Cheryl: I can’t believe you didn’t know that was a hooker.
Me: It was a really nice dress.
Cheryl, putting her arm around me: I love that my man isn’t an expert on everything.
(Photo of Les Miserables – New York, Wikimedia Commons; Photo of Masonic Temple, Detroit by MikeRussell)
Okay, that’s my story. Now it’s your turn. Any “mistaken identity” stories to share?
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