Photo: J.V. Aranda The wedding was at a camp for rich people just outside Charleston. The differences between a regular summer camp and a rich-adult camp are subtle, but distinct. Both may be set in the woods, on a lake, and feature quaint hand-painted wood signs to direct you to the mess hall. But, at rich-people camp, as I soon discovered, all bugs are somehow banished from the premises — even with the window open in my cabin, I never once saw a mosquito or a spider during the entire weekend.
At that moment, though, I felt more awkward that anything else. I was restlessly balancing a Styrofoam plate of potato chips in one hand and swirling a beer in the other hand, chatting with Jen’s approachably unattractive cousin about “what a pleasant, cool weekend it turned out to be,” when I saw him.
Post-reception, Jen’s nearest and dearest gathered in social cabin for a more raucous after-party. Well-liquored by this point, I had stripped down to a less-constrictive American Apparel romper, and drank bourbon straight from the bottle as I mingled between Jen’s friends. Feeling the fire of liquid confidence, I sidled up to Max by the fireplace and attempted not to slur as I asked him about his work as a nanosystems engineer.
InquirerDigital Danm, I should not a done go?
Cool story but I’m just going to imagine you slept with her older slightly balding brother who keeps calling you late night instead