I once went to a black-tie fundraising gala (not the Met, hardly) in my budget-James-Bond-best. Slick, tailored, navy shawl collar tux. “Just so” facial scruff. Killer shoes. The works.
And then a roving photographer gave me a hard time for not wanting my picture taken. I told him no thanks. He asked again. I said no thank you, firmly but politely. And that wasn’t good enough for him. He knew he had me on the edge. He kept pushing. Kept giving me a hard time.
And that was it.
I left. I told my wife I had to leave. And I did. I just left her. I got in my (at the time) cool car, and shivered like I had hypothermia the entire drive home.
The end.
