I Touched Him

Last night I volunteered at the Red Cross ball. My job was to wear a Red Cross teeshirt and smile at rich people. And take their credit card info when they won in the auction. And resist the temptation to run cackling out of the building with said credit card, yelling "I'll show you disaster relief, biiiitcheeeees."

Clinton spoke. Bloomberg posed. A rich old man thought I was funny when I told him we accepted gold bullion.

But the highlight, by far, was Jon Stewart. He was mc'ing the evening. Now, everyone who knows me knows that I want to be the Irish corned beef in a Jon Stewart / Stephen Colbert love sandwich. Last night was my chance.

As the volunteers lined up in the hallway to get instructions for the auction, I noticed Jon off to the side, with his wee handler man. Though I was supposed to be listening to directions, I instead stared at him, and as he started to walk away, I gazed at him from on high (I'm 5'10" in flats, and I was in stellettos, and he's a little man).

Then it happened.

We locked eyes.

I tried to communicate my desire.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi...Jon," I said, displaying my rapier wit.

"Hi," he said again, waiting.

"I'm a huge fan."

"Thank you," he said.

And then he shook my hand [while his little handler dude interrupted us and was trying to get my flow, which annoyed me, and distracted Jon, and broke our moment].

But he touched me.

My right hand. My sacred hand. My hand blessed by the funny. My hand that blesses my own funny, if you know what I mean.

And I think you do.