Okay, this is probably stupid. I don’t even know why I’m typing this out. It’s 2:17 AM. I just got home from the *gala*. Yeah, a gala. Me. My in-laws, right? My wife’s parents. They’re… rich. Like, REALLY rich. Like, they have a *chauffeur* rich. And here I am, I fix furnaces for a living. Not exactly a black-tie kind of guy. But tonight, I was. Or tried to be. My wife, bless her, she got me this fancy rented tux, probably cost more than my kid’s college fund for a semester. And she’s like, "Just try to fit in, honey. They’re important clients here." And I'm there, trying to remember which fork is which, trying not to say "y’all" or "ain't" and for SURE not to talk about the Yankees. My father-in-law, he’s talking about, like, "philanthropic endeavors" and "quarterly yields" and I’m just nodding, smiling, pretending I know what the hell he’s on about. I swear I heard him say "bespoke" like five times. BESPOKE. Who even talks like that? Am I the only one who thinks it sounds like something you’d get arrested for? And then the food. Tiny. Everything was tiny. Like doll food. I ate three of those little shrimp things, they called them "canapés," and I was still starving. Had to pretend I was full because it was *rude* to ask for more, apparently. And the wine, tiny sips. Gotta look sophisticated. I just wanted a goddamn beer. A cold Pabst. But nope. "It’s a robust Cabernet, dear," my mother-in-law purred, holding her pinky out. My pinky was doing a death grip on the tiny glass. The whole time, I’m thinking about my dad back home, probably watching some wrestling rerun, trying to figure out if he took his evening meds. And my oldest, she probably hasn't eaten anything but cold pizza for dinner because I'm out here playing dress-up. It's like I have two full-time jobs: taking care of everyone else, and pretending to be someone I'm not. So I spent four hours, FOUR HOURS, smiling and nodding and talking about "the market" and how "challenging" things are for *everyone* right now, trying to sound smart. Trying not to curse when some guy accidentally spilled his tiny wine on my rented pants. Trying not to laugh when my father-in-law pronounced "quinoa" like "keen-wah." I’m just so damn tired. My back hurts from standing so straight, my face hurts from smiling. My wife, she says it's "important for her career." And I get it, I do. She works hard. But does anyone else feel like they’re just… disappearing? Like, the real you, the one who likes old cars and cheesy sci-fi movies and doesn't know what "curated experiences" means? Does that part of you just get packed away in a box until you’re alone again? It’s not even funny anymore, just… exhausting. I just wanna go back to my regular life, my regular clothes, and not worry about what fork to use. Is that so much to ask?