The banquet room was drenched in silence as we waited for the servers to arrive with first course.
Everyone was torn between thinking of their existential nightmare and quoting a line from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Specifically instructed by each of our significant others not to talk about politics, economics, history, religion, comic books, or how much modern music sucks, our only conversational opener was “How ‘bout them Lakers?” but the Lakers were so horrible this opener would have to be shelved until perhaps 2019.
Besides, everyone was too shy to introduce themselves. So we just waited in a very comfortable silence, observing the people around us and thinking “how the hell did I get conned into joining this group of cynics, surbersives and assorted deviants?”
Mercifully, the servers brought the first course, a delightful lobster bisque, but there were no table settings.
In unison, we commented “waiter, taste my soup!” laughed as the servers fell for the oldest gag in the book, and simultaneously felt respect and outrage that the others had copied our theft of a one hundred year old joke.
As the servers left the room to find spoons, so did we guests, figuring it was a perfect excuse to escape and find the comfort of the books and games contained in the tablets we had been ordered to leave in the car.
If the timing was right, we would all return just before the end of the entree to scarf down dinner and be present to get our just desserts.
(I’ve taken Briggs Meyers a couple of times and am so split by the answers in one category, I go back and forth between the “P” and the “J”. Can you guess the first three letters?)
Okay, Sherry, now you have to respond to one of my writing challenges: