My boyfriend and I go to a wedding reception where he knows no one but me and I know no one but him and the bride. During the cocktail hour, we stand together, drinks in hand, surveying the other guests who are in happy little chatting clusters. Near the buffet table I spot a group of guys who are decidedly unlike the rest of the crowd. One guy has a tattoo on his neck and carefully sculpted facial hair, one guy sports a buzz cut and frilly pink tuxedo shirt, one guy wears a hint of arrogance like an accessory along with his slightly disheveled blazer; he seems somehow Italian. Of all the people in the room, these are the people I want to talk to.
"Check out the cool kids in the corner," I say to my boyfriend. "Those are my people." It's odd that I would say this since I am not myself a cool kid, but I felt a kinship nevertheless.
We are ushered into the dining room which is set up with dozens of tables for ten. The happy chatting groups select tables where they will become happy dining groups. The two of us wander around like orphans as I search desperately for the cool kids. Finally, as tables fill all around us, I give up my quest and we stake a claim at a table beside two perfectly pleasant couples.
When we get into the buffet line a few minutes later, dinner music is already playing. I look up at the stage and start laughing. The cool kids are all in the band.