I’ve told you before but will remind you again: I’m a farm boy.

Shortly after our wedding, I surprised Cheryl with two tickets to the theater in Detroit, which was about an hour and a half from our home. The show I’d chosen was an obscure one called Les Miserables’, which I’ve since learned is French for “Joe will hate this.”

I don’t want to give away my age, but this was before the days of GPS. We took my motor-car with only a map. Back then these were printed on a thing called paper. You kids wouldn’t understand.

Because I’m a bear-of-little-brain, I missed my turn and soon found myself circling a neighborhood I’d describe as “less than optimal for people headed to the theater.”

I was horrified when I turned a corner and saw a woman walking alone in this neighborhood in a shiny formal red dress. She was over-the-top decked out with her outfit and poofy hair. For a second, I thought about asking her if she needed a ride, since it was clear that she must be walking to the theater. Maybe she could help with directions. For some reason…probably because I didn’t know the neighborhood, I decided to drive on.

…another ten minutes, and still no sign of our theater.

BUT, turning yet another corner, I spotted the same woman again. This time, she was standing on the curb, waiting for traffic to clear.

Here's the theater we were searching for. I know what you're thinking and agree. It totally blends in with the buildings around it.

Me: Let’s follow her. She knows where the theater is.

Cheryl: She knows where something is.

I slowed the car.

Cheryl: What are you doing?

Me: I told you already; I’m going to see what direction this woman goes.

Cheryl, confused: Why would we do that?

Me: Look at her. She’s got to be headed to the theater! I’m sick of driving in circles.

Cheryl: Are you kidding me?

Me: What?

Cheryl: Really? She’s a hooker!

My head nearly swivels off as I try to get a better look, like I’ve just discovered a baby Zebra in the corner of the pen at the zoo.

Me: Wow! Really? THAT’S a hooker?

Cheryl: Holy S%$!, Joe. Pull away, before she thinks we want a threesome.

I drive. We finally find the theater. I hate the show, except the one song where they’re all getting drunk. By intermission, I want to be drunk, too. We head for the concession area.

Cheryl: I can’t believe you didn’t know that was a hooker.

Me: It was a really nice dress.

Cheryl, putting her arm around me: I love that my man isn’t an expert on everything.

(Photo of Les Miserables – New York, Wikimedia Commons; Photo of Masonic Temple, Detroit by MikeRussell)

Okay, that’s my story. Now it’s your turn. Any “mistaken identity” stories to share?