So way back in the mists of time I was engaged to a girl I'll call Katrina, because that's how I refer to her in my memoir. Katrina and I have stayed in touch all these years, and she now lives in Connecticut with her second husband, a Dutch chemist nine years her junior (go, Katrina!) whom I'll call Gerrit.

Laura and I had a holiday party back in December, and Katrina and Gerrit drove down from Connecticut for it. It was the first time I'd met Gerrit.

About an hour into the party, Gerrit came sauntering into the group I was chatting with, drunk off his ass, and said, "You know what I just found out that I didn't know before? I found out in the car on the way down here. This guy here"—he indicated me—"he used to be engaged to my wife."

I looked around at the group and said, "Well, this is awkward."

"Yeah, he like got engaged to her at some airport," said Gerrit.

I had been about to leave on a two-year Mormon mission. I was hoping Katrina would wait for me.

"That was a very long time ago," I said. "We were kids. I was nineteen."

"Yeah, and she was twenty."

"Time to change the subject, Bill," said bobhowe. "You're only digging yourself deeper."

"Can you believe this?" Gerrit said. "I only just found out. That's a pretty big thing."

"Not really," I said. "To Mormons, getting engaged is like a pastime. It's a sport. It's not the same as for other people."

"You know what else I found out? There was something about a ring, this ring, made out of wrapping paper?"

I look around the group again. "Foil. It was the foil from a stick of chewing gum."

"Yeah, yeah, that was it. And you know what? She still has it. She still has that ring."

I tried not to look as floored I felt. "That's nothing, Gerrit," I said. "I still have the gum."

For a second there, Gerrit looked like he believed me. Then everyone laughed good-naturedly, and he did too, and that seemed to defuse things. But later that evening he was wandering around the party pulling up his shirt to show people his tattoo. Poor guy.