Day Three: The Aftermath
\”Poor Ruhlman,\” says my wife, for about the twelfth time today. Michael has just shown her the result of her boxing demo on Friday night; a large, dark purple bruise running from his shoulder to his elbow. A truly gasp-inducing injury. As Mrs. Ruhlman forgivingly pointed out, it was perhaps not such a good idea to suggest–after receiving one playful poke–that my wife \”give it her best shot.\” She\’s been taking boxing AND mixed martial arts classes nearly every day for six months and I told Ruhlman that both her left hook and right cross can knock you out. Did he listen?It\’s been a confusing weekend on the beach. My Saturday event was a roaring, enthusiastically belligerent success–yet … I feel, I dunno, diminished and drained by the whole sordid enterprise. Maybe I\’m just not angry anymore. I tell you, it shakes you to the core when people you\’ve been insulting for years–at every opportunity–are decent to you.
In the last three, up-is-down and down-is-up days Rocco Di Spirito bailed me out, Emeril Lagasse generously fed me, Jamie Oliver talked child rearing with me for hours. Cat Cora was civil and … drum roll please … Rachael Ray was unfailingly polite. I fear I might even have hurt her feelings. They might as well have worked me over with tire irons. I feel an utter beast this morning.
