You may have suspected in the past that you don't know anything. People may have even mentioned it to you. Possibly, your parents or your future spouse told you flat-out that you don't know a thing.
Still, you thought: I must know something. I'm an adult. I drive myself to work. I pick out my own ties. Surely, I know something.
Just thinking that shows how little you actually know. Matt pities you - you have so much to learn about how little you've learned.
Oh, you're the exception. You do know things? Like what? You know how many home runs Mel Ott hit? You know the other name for Interstate 290? You know how many times Marlon Brando was nominated for the Academy Award?
So. What.
Who. Cares.
You don't know a thing. You'll see.
For instance, do you know what font looks best on a wedding program? Do you know what kind of metal will be the most durable for a ring? Do you know how far in advance of a wedding you send out the invites? Do you know what hair style works best on a hot summer day? Do you know how to match a vest with a dress? Do know what you buy at a patisserie?
See: You don't know a thing.
Last weekend, Matt was reminded how much he doesn't know when he tagged along for the official cake tasting at Rolf's Patisserie in Lincolnwood. Of all the odd and painful wedding tasks, Matt was looking forward to the tasting.
After all, his married guy friends - when they would hear the tasting was still ahead - would invariably nudge him.
"Oh, that's great," they's say reassuringly. "That's actually fun. That was the best part."
See: They know nothing, either.
Lynne and Matt sat down in the back room of Rolf's. Cake Girl - a pleasant but generally disinterested employee - put two plates down in front of Lynne and Matt. She then rattled off the names of jellies, puddings, fillings, icings, breads and maybe there was a zeppelin in there. Matt couldn't be sure.
When Matt had pictured the cake tasting, he imagined slice after slice of cake, like the tour of the Willie Wonka Chocolate Factory. Accordingly, Matt skipped breakfast, anticipating of the Cake Parade.
See: Matt knows nothing.
Instead of endless rows of cake, there were six kinds of bread (including carrot and banana), a few skimpy rows of "fillings" that - as far as Matt knew - were divided alphabetically by price from top to bottom.
Matt stared at the tiny dollops of ... what were they? Does jelly go on cake? Isn't pudding it's own food? How can there be white and red cakes - those are colors, not flavors, right?
Cake Girl asked them to start tasting and match the insides with the cake.
Matt took a little taste of the banana bread. (An aside: Why so little bread? This seemed like a place with endless amounts - possibly vats of bread and icing - yet the samples were designed for Lilliputians. Second, yes, Matt knows it's probably not called 'bread'. Whatever.) Mmmmmm. Hmmmm. Matt took a little taste of the frosting (lemon). Mmmmm. Hmmmmm. Pledge and bananas. It was good. So was chocolate and chocolate, white cake and strawberry, carrot and jelly.
Mmmmm. Hmmmm. Yum. Um?
Then, Cake Girl opened up her book and showed Lynne and Matt (non-edible) pictures of cake after cake after cake. Pick whichever one you like, she offered.
Matt wondered what he was looking for. Structural stability? Height? Canoe-like shape?
Of course, in the end Lynne picked combinations that actually made sense while Matt sat at her side, like a primate, eating the leftover rows of frosting.
None of this fazed Lynne. Now, some might say Lynne is low-key and low-maintenance, which would certainly be true. But, maybe, she just knows Matt doesn't know a thing and he's happy to agree with her good choices.
Oh, so what kind of cake did they pick? Well, Matt was instructed by Lynne, with the express written consent of Major League Baseball, not to tell. Lynne says she wants it to be a surprise on The Big Day.
And there you go. As soon as you do learn something, you're not supposed to tell anyone. Matt's learning.
