Meetings

 

I hate meetings. I know, they're important. They need to happen, but I hate them. It goes all the way back to Boy Scouts. Every Friday I had to show up to the Saint George School basement for boring scout meetings. The only good thing about the scout meetings were the other boys. I didn't realize it at the time, but that was when I had the first inkling I was gay. Fast forward to the 1980's and corporate life. Again, meetings. Stupid, boring meetings that probably needed to happen, but I couldn't stand them. There would always be that one person who took a deep dive into minutia. Things that nobody else cared about would be dug up, and we would have to discuss what font should be used for memos or some other useless crap. I spent twenty five years going to corporate meetings. Nothing good ever came from those meetings. They were almost always called to either take something away from us, or give us more work to do.

Every second Tuesday of the month the Model A Club has their meeting. I love my 1929 Ford Model A. I like my fellow Model A enthusiasts, mostly because they also have an old Ford Model A. Also, the club is a good source of information and knowhow. But the meetings, oy vey they are boring. Ninety five percent of the club members are older than me and probably heterosexual. Not that it should mean anything, but I now know how Mark must have felt when we went to Cracker Barrel for lunch. Most of the members have been members for decades and they all know each other. If the Model A Club served drinks and turned the lights down a little, I'm sure I could deal with it better, but I don't. So I sit there while the meeting drones on and the minutes of the last meeting are read. Melba toast is less dry than sitting through the minutes of the last meeting. Anyway, going to these meetings have only made me miss Mark more.  A meeting is always better when you have somebody with you. Somebody who will appreciate it when you roll your eyes. The only problem with taking Mark to one of my Model A meetings is that he would have never gone again. In fact, he may have died just to get out of going the first time.