The last time I enjoyed a luncheon, I was a 7-year-old Brownie armed with two box lunches and a handsome man – my Dad. Those containers were hand-decorated by me and filled with Mom’s homemade fried chicken. Dad and I had a blast, but luncheons have all been downhill ever since. 

Frankly, I was forewarned. In junior high, I gleefully attended Charm School and learned everything there was to being a lady – properly crossing my legs at the ankle, balancing a book on my head and handling a variety of silverware at a luncheon. 

Acting like a lady seemed simple enough. I was even blessed with a flat head, so if you ever needed someone to show you how to walk without dropping the book off your head, well, I was your go-to gal. 

But I always got in trouble when it came to luncheons. First, I thought them extremely boring and, unfortunately, my big mouth always seemed to get me in trouble. I figured if you had a table full of other people just sitting there, your job was to keep them entertained until the program began. 

Once a disc jockey; always a blabbermouth. 

Back in my business days, I was forced to attend many luncheons. To me there isn’t much exciting about a large hotel ballroom stuffed with 10-top tables accented by the smell of rubber chicken. 

Even worse, the room was always packed full of young business women who believed that, luncheon by luncheon, somehow they would end up ruling the world. Funny, but I thought Gloria Steinem wanted us to burn our bras instead of “doing lunch”. 

I’d always show up half-bored. Most of my entertainment was derived from torturing the waiter by asking for more stale rolls every five minutes. 

I put up with the introductions, discussions of who worked where and pass the butter, please. But after silence fell on this group of business women, I’d turn on the mouth. I always had them laughing by the time the crème brulee was served. 

Problem is, when you’re a one-man show, you tend to rattle on until you stick your foot in your mouth. I guess that’s why my mouth’s so big. 

Once I started winning awards and being appointed to positions on several different boards, I found myself eating extra bread just to keep from talking.  I swear I’ll never touch another cold roll adorned with a whipped butter floret again. 

When I ditched the Big City, I chucked my pantyhose and announced to all the deer within shouting range, “That’s it! I never have to go to another luncheon again! I’m throwing away all those stolen linen napkins!” 

Luckily, “bring a dish” does not a luncheon make. Down here in the country, I haven’t seen any matching silver since I’ve arrived. Though they didn’t teach it in Charm School, I’m becoming really handy with a Spork. 

Sure, even here in the hills, the occasional ladies luncheon invitation rears its ugly head. Lucky for me, I’m a 24/7 caregiver and have the perfect excuse. I’d much rather being laughing with Dearly Demented Mom over a peanut butter sandwich that doesn’t require silverware. 

Just the other day, I ran into one of the ladies in town who gleefully announced, “I have to go. I’m going to a luncheon!” All I could think was better her than me. I’m way too busy balancing a book on my head.

Mikie Baker
www.mikiebaker.com

Copyright Medina Mikie, Ink. 2011