For years I've been trying to convince my friends to buy matching outfits. I don't want us to dress the same every day. That would be creepy, and, possibly, against the law. All I have asked is that on one evening during our yearly vacation to P-Town that we wear the same outfits to dinner. Not an unreasonable request. And it would make for a lovely group photo.
Every year before our vacation I bring up the idea of matching outfits. And every year I am called terrible names by my good friends. They use words like 'fool,' and 'hopelessly bourgeois,' and 'dimwit.'
Last year, though, it seemed like I finally convinced my friend Greta that it was a good idea. She phoned me to tell me that she had found the perfect outfits. Her idea was that each of my friends would wear a T-shirt that said: 'I'm with Stupid.' You know, the ones with the big finger pointing to the left. We would walk down the main street of P-Town with me at the far left of the line, so that all their 'I'm with Stupid' fingers pointed in my direction. My T-shirt would simply say 'Stupid.'
Well, everyone, except me, had a good laugh over that idea. My friends stopped calling me by my old, saucy nickname—J-Lo—and started referring to me as Stupid.
But, guess what? Stupid was the one laughing this week! I did something so incredibly dumb that even I started referring to myself as Stupid. And because my actions hurt only others—and not me—I found the situation to be ridiculously amusing.
Here's what happened: Greta sent me an email filled with lots of intimate information. She had engaged in some questionable behavior and now feared the consequences. She wanted my advice on how to wiggle out of the situation with little emotional fallout.
I wrote back immediately, giving stern, yet carefully reasoned advice. I merrily pushed the 'send' button, turned off the computer, and spent the rest of the morning rolling around the floor with my dogs.
Later that afternoon, I returned to my email, fully expecting to find an email from Greta, thanking me for my thoughtful advice. But, instead, I found a missive decorated with those alarming red-high-priority-flags. The email rattled in my inbox, shaking with anger.
It seems that when I responded to Greta's email, I accidentally copied a British friend on the message. As a result, all of England learned of Greta's dirty ( very dirty! ) little secrets.
Greta's email started out with 'I'm going to kill you,' and ended with 'What kind of imbecile can't figure out how to send an email without touching off an international incident?'
The answer, of course, is the type of imbecile who is referred to by her friends as 'Stupid.'
All my friends know that I can't be trusted with technology. I have a healthy suspicion of all things that you have to plug into electric sockets. I have a cell phone but I never use it because I find it to be as dangerous and confusing as a nuclear submarine. And I've long suspected that my computer will jump off my desk and murder me in my sleep.
Yesterday, I sent an email to Greta. It said, 'Do you think this is funny yet?'
She sent a one-word response. 'No.'
But she will. Eventually. You can't stay angry at the lame brained. It's not humane.
Hey! I wrote a novel! It's called Dateland. You can buy it on Amazon.
