Everything was perfect. We arrived at the hotel in New Jersey last Sunday with plenty of time to spare before my nephew’s wedding.

We found one of my sibling’s rooms and made plans on where to meet before going to the church.

We enjoyed some of the complimentary microwave popcorn that the hotel provided so we wouldn’t starve before dinner at the reception.

We even got to watch some of an Austin Powers movie while we got dressed. Like I said, everything was perfect.

Until I went to put on my shoes.

I had managed to bring two shoes. I managed to bring two black shoes. I managed to bring a left and a right shoe.

They were from two different pairs. I couldn’t believe it. One wingtip and one plain black shoe.

At first, I wanted to scream, to curse, to throw them in anger. But that’s hard to do when your wife is laughing at you.

She didn’t laugh that hard, which is why I love her. She did make me realize that no one would probably notice.

Except for a little detailing, the shoes didn’t look that different. The heel height was similar, so I wouldn’t look like a war veteran.

That could have been pretty cool though. Imagine the stories I could tell. In college, we once convinced girls from another college that my friend on crutches had hurt his knee and missed a chance at playing hockey in the Olympics.

I could have gone for something like that, but I hardly look like someone who has had his athletic hopes dashed by a freak injury. Unless my sport of choice is competitive eating.

But the fun of creating a new identity would be dwarfed by the mocking from my siblings. As the youngest of eight, I have learned the hard way that if I do everything right, I will get teased. If I do something wrong, I will really get teased.

So we headed off to the church, and I looked for every conceivable way to keep my feet hidden from sight.

An hour or so later – beautiful bride, lovely ceremony, yada, yada, yada – and we were off to the real test. The reception.

I hoped we would head right to a ballroom where the lights would be dimmed for romantic effect, and to keep me from looking like a fool with unmatched shoes.

No such luck. The first hour and a half consisted of a cocktail reception under a tent outside the reception hall.

The sun was shining. I took a deep breath, grabbed a beer and hoped for the best.

With about 30 family members on hand, I figured I would just keep moving. The best strategy was to go from group to group so I didn’t stand with someone long enough for them to look down at the ground and discover my secret.

The plan worked perfectly, partially because we were all too busy keeping a lookout for the guys carrying trays of appetizers. They would barely make it inside the tent without having to go back for a second round.

Finally, they called for us to go inside. The room was dark enough for me to finally relax.

When I told several of my siblings the next day, one of my brothers just shook his head silently. I guess they finally have to accept that I’ll still continue to do goofy things, but they’re going to have to be smarter at figuring them out.