When they ask if I attended any of the Mardi Gras parades this year, I just say ‘no.’ They never ask why not and I never tell. The simple reason is that I’d be out of place.
I don’t like feeling out of place. I’ve been there enough to know it’s no fun.
George Gobel used to say, “Have you ever felt like all the world was a tuxedo and you were a pair of brown shoes?”
The lady from the chamber of commerce called to apologize. That night they were honoring a member of my church, one of our leading deacons who was an uppity-up in the finance world, at a lavish banquet in the hotel down the street. I was supposed to have gotten an invitation, she said, but someone failed to send it, and would I please try to come. I knew what had happened, that someone had just thought at the last minute, “We ought to invite his pastor.”
I said, “Thank you. If I can, I’ll be there.” The cocktail hour was scheduled before the banquet, so I figured it would give me time to say my hello to the deacon, then slip out. I walked into the banquet area and was stunned by the scene: a crowd of the city’s elite, all decked out in tuxedos and evening dresses, was milling around, cocktails in hand. These were the beautiful people of our city, the ones who run the largest corporations and foundations and whose images adorn the society pages.
Meanwhile, I was wearing the clothes I had left home in that morning, a tan sport-coat and grey slacks, which after eight hours were beginning to look like I had slept in them.
I walked around the room, feeling like that dream we all have had where you are in a crowd with no clothes on. I kept searching for a familiar face, anyone at all whom I knew. I never did see the guest-of-honor, but after five minutes of torture from feeling so out of place, I decided to go home and enjoy a quiet evening with the family.
Home. My place.