Some friend of my wife’s said to me—who am I, a balding stand-up comic in 1987??—after using the dry cleaner recommendation she’d asked me for a week earlier, “That strip mall where you told me to get my pants hemmed is so depressing. I can’t believe you go there.” I leaned against my open front door, in a fraying hoodie and soiled pajama bottoms, blinking at her over my first Diet Coke of the day. What did she want from me? What was I supposed to say? “I can’t believe you go there!” she repeated, and it became clear to me that she wanted…an explanation. An apology.
