Embarrassing story No. 1: The wedding flake

At this blessed event, I am toast ...

The wedding

In 1991, I was the best man at my older brother’s wedding. Besides kinship, I had three jobs: Plan the bachelor party, hold on to the wedding ring at the ceremony and deliver a toast at the reception.

As I recall, the bachelor party was lousy, but I let myself off the hook for that one. The wedding was in my sister-in-law’s hometown of Las Vegas, and we had to drive there from Los Angeles on a Friday. You know what that entails. I planned a night at a comedy club because a strip club wasn’t called for. The drive took seven hours. The comedy was pallid. It was a good-faith effort.

The ceremony took place in a temple. My brother handed me the ring inside its box. Anxiety held me hostage. There was no reason to think I would lose the ring, and still I was so worried that I wouldn’t put the box in my pocket. I kept it in my hand while moving around in final hour before the ceremony, so that I could always feel its presence.

In the temple lobby with maybe 20 minutes to go, I turned the palm of my hand over. I was holding the box lid. Everything beneath it was gone.