I’m just sitting here waiting for it to be 11 o’clock. I’m going to a “ladies who lunch” luncheon at The Country Club. I’m trying my hardest to stop shaking in my boots (I mean, non-designer sandals). It’s not like I haven’t moved in posh circles before—I’ve twice been a regular on the Hamptons’ social scene, but I was more of an inconspicuous hanger-on—but this particular event has my stomach in knots. I can’t lie when they ask about whom I am and what I’m doing with my life. Some people there will actually know me and unequivocally will not support my delusion of grandeur—that I work in publishing, and by that I don’t mean writing a stinkin’ blog; that I live in a palatial mansion, and by that I don’t mean my one bedroom apartment; that I have primo stock options and am developing my portfolio, and by that I don’t even know what that means!
I need to prepare myself for whatever these ladies toss my way. I hope my wit and response time are razor sharp and that I don’t stumble into bad lighting. Wish me luck.