Last night at a friend’s 50th surprise birthday party, I had to relive one of the single most embarrassing moments of my life.
I look back on the idiotic interaction now with a bit of affinity and affection. But, at the time — in the early twenty-tens — I fully expected to die of mortification.
I was in a very rural Catholic church in Central Iowa for a baptism or christening or something. It definitely involved a prim and proper priest and there was a plenty of pomp and circumstance. This wasn’t Catholic-lite or Catholic-adjacent, mind you. This was some big, important thing, the details of which are a little fuzzy. (Sue me.)
Oddly, I was late and got seated near the very back of the church. I had the row mostly to myself until another last-minute attendee scooted in beside me. I vaguely remember he looked like the superhero dad from The Incredibles.
The bells-and-whistles service required a lot of standing and sitting, which is par for the course in Catholicismland. Even though I wasn’t Catholic, I went to a Catholic high school, so I was ready for the calisthenics involved.
After the final blessing, guests were ushered out row by row, which seemingly took forever. Bless. For some reason, I took it upon myself to strike up a conversation with the man next to me. Up until that point, he had been nodding and waving at people as they walked by him.
Given that we were in the last row, it was readily apparent we would be the absolute last two to exit the church.
He was still nodding and waving to folks walking by. I figured he owned the town’s combine and tractor dealership.
To this day, I’m still not quite sure why I tapped this gentleman on his shoulder and whisper-asked, “Hi, what do you do?” (If you know me, you know “Hi, what do you do?” is not in my vernacular. I don’t care what you do. Like, for-realz-could-not-possibly-care-less.)
He turned around and said, “I’m the Governor … ”
He said it under his breath with zero hesitation, like Michael Keaton lowly growling “I’m Batman.”
There was a beat. Then, a lingering pause. And then he continued ” … of Iowa.”
My face turned the color of a fire truck—that was on fire. I think I swallowed my tongue. Whole.
There was no chance to regroup or regain any semblance of dignity, so I just said, “How great is that?! Your mom must be so proud.”
What. The. Actual. F*ck. People?
He nodded and turned back around to continue glad-handing.
This proud, former Iowan had been sitting next to Chet Culver for the duration of the services and had no idea who he was. And now I was trapped next to him after inexplicably asking what he did for a living.
I could feel each of my inner organs starting to shift positions inside my body. My eye began to twitch.
Yours truly had to stand there for approximately five more minutes with his back to me before we were finally — finally!— ushered out.
I got into my car and drove away. I was still suffering from flushed heatstroke a full day later.
Betcha’ God laughed about that exchange for the next week and a half. Yes, at my expense.
So, because the universe works in mysterious ways, I ran into former Iowa Governor Chet Culver last night at this birthday party. Chagrined, I relayed my story to him. We both had a good laugh.
Part of me wanted to ask him if he remembered our bygone interaction. I’m guessing it’s an affirmative, but who knows? But just know, Mr. Culver, sir — I’ve never asked another human “Hi, what do you do?” nor will I ever again. Double bless.