No One Knows What a Man Really Means
It’s a gorgeous fall evening. The air is chill and the sun is setting along the Hudson. I can see New Jersey, the place I call home, but immediately followed by “it’s like 20 minutes away from the city”, so that people know I’m not sad about it. I watch the sky change from gray to bright orange to LGBT purple and finally midnight blue. Where am I? Am I on a date? Perhaps going for a stroll? About to meet some friends for a drink?
I am catering a bar mitzvah.
I am wearing all black, including a T Shirt that on the back in bubble letters says “amaZe youRselF,” and my brothers dress shoes that are two sizes too big but I thought would be more comfortable than my own cause they have more cushion. I did not think that through. Zach, however, our pre-man of the night did think this night through. amaZe youRselF was not an autocorrect mishap, oh no, those capital letters are intentional, as they are none other than our very own Zachary’s initials. We’ve got a wordsmith on our hands folks. amaZe youRselF is also, obviously, the theme of the night. I wish I could take the time to deconstruct this theme, but our event manager did so for us so poignantly before the night began I won’t even bother.
First he told us to turn around so we could all look at the back of our shirts. This tickled me because turning around would in no way allow me to see the back of my own shirt, but actually the backs of others. I forgave this because unlike Zach, clearly Mr. Mans speciality wasn’t language, it was catering. He immediately followed this instruction with “now that you’ve seen the back of your shirt (I had not), take the lesson and amaZe MYSELF with quality service.” I once again forgave this syntax, and I believe it was because God was with me that night on the pier of a luxury riverside ballroom. I did in fact amaZe myself with my capacity to forgive.
Said luxury ballroom Zach had papa rent out was titled “Zachary’s Lair” for the eve, and said so on flatscreens throughout the Hall, with the title superimposed over aerial shots of Times Square. And they say money can’t buy class. It was a very intense night with very stressed caterers screaming things like “where are the champagne flutes?!” And “the halibut comes out at 8, no earlier, no later!!!” I made friends because I am a delight and I also landed a triple dicking around in the kitchen, so things definitely could have been worse. I was really hoping for middle school drama, like someone having too many Mikes Hards and puking on the dance floor or a passive aggressive text to Zach from a butthurt friend wishing him a happy bar mitzvah despite not having been invited, but no dice. I even lingered by the bathroom in hopes of catching Lindsey running in crying because Brett danced with Claire, but still nothing. I saw two people of color the whole night and both were me in the mirror. The bar mitzvah cost 3 million dollars in total and I don’t know if Zach became a man but I made $152 and inhaled about 4 cannolis when the tray I was carrying got too heavy for my Barbie doll wrists and I felt like taking a risk. I think we both know who really won that night.
Mazel Tov.
I am catering a bar mitzvah.
I am wearing all black, including a T Shirt that on the back in bubble letters says “amaZe youRselF,” and my brothers dress shoes that are two sizes too big but I thought would be more comfortable than my own cause they have more cushion. I did not think that through. Zach, however, our pre-man of the night did think this night through. amaZe youRselF was not an autocorrect mishap, oh no, those capital letters are intentional, as they are none other than our very own Zachary’s initials. We’ve got a wordsmith on our hands folks. amaZe youRselF is also, obviously, the theme of the night. I wish I could take the time to deconstruct this theme, but our event manager did so for us so poignantly before the night began I won’t even bother.
First he told us to turn around so we could all look at the back of our shirts. This tickled me because turning around would in no way allow me to see the back of my own shirt, but actually the backs of others. I forgave this because unlike Zach, clearly Mr. Mans speciality wasn’t language, it was catering. He immediately followed this instruction with “now that you’ve seen the back of your shirt (I had not), take the lesson and amaZe MYSELF with quality service.” I once again forgave this syntax, and I believe it was because God was with me that night on the pier of a luxury riverside ballroom. I did in fact amaZe myself with my capacity to forgive.
Said luxury ballroom Zach had papa rent out was titled “Zachary’s Lair” for the eve, and said so on flatscreens throughout the Hall, with the title superimposed over aerial shots of Times Square. And they say money can’t buy class. It was a very intense night with very stressed caterers screaming things like “where are the champagne flutes?!” And “the halibut comes out at 8, no earlier, no later!!!” I made friends because I am a delight and I also landed a triple dicking around in the kitchen, so things definitely could have been worse. I was really hoping for middle school drama, like someone having too many Mikes Hards and puking on the dance floor or a passive aggressive text to Zach from a butthurt friend wishing him a happy bar mitzvah despite not having been invited, but no dice. I even lingered by the bathroom in hopes of catching Lindsey running in crying because Brett danced with Claire, but still nothing. I saw two people of color the whole night and both were me in the mirror. The bar mitzvah cost 3 million dollars in total and I don’t know if Zach became a man but I made $152 and inhaled about 4 cannolis when the tray I was carrying got too heavy for my Barbie doll wrists and I felt like taking a risk. I think we both know who really won that night.
Mazel Tov.
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