Tom, the Golden Child, considered going pantless to my cousin's wedding. T minus twenty minutes until departure, he couldn't find his suit pants. Anywhere.
Besides the option of screaming "mazeltov" in his scanties, Tom also contemplated going to the wedding as "that guy" in jeans. After all, he rubbed his chin, "jeans are my go-to pant" and "at weddings in Pennsylvania, there's always one dude in jeans." In the end, he ran across eighth Avenue to Banana Republic and bought a new set of wedding-type trousers.
On the way to the nuptials, I declared that I might just steal the Golden Child crown right out of Tom's clutches. I proudly displayed my little gold clutch handbag-- the same one my Mom carried when she was crowned Prom Queen. She'd given it to me a decade ago. "I'm so in as soon as she sees this," I cackled.
Tom smirked, a picture of confidence. "And right after she notices the handbag, I'll simply ask her to dance... oh, so sorry."