I sigh as I follow my dad to join the buffet line. Glancing around the open-plan kitchen, I realize I’m a bright coral enigma engulfed in a sea of beige. I don’t know why everyone in my family wears neutrals like they’re on the set of a western movie.
If any of them had the boldness to wear a shade beyond “sad oatmeal,” maybe I wouldn’t stand out so much. But being born into this family means pledging your life to trophy worship and zero personality in your wardrobe.
A few of us step forward with the kind of hesitation you’d expect before a firing squad. It’s really not that bad—we’ve only had one case of food poisoning. But this is where Aunt Sheri’s purse comes into play. Lined with a ziplock bag, it’s the lifeboat for those who can’t stomach Mom’s experiments but don’t want a repeat of last year, when everyone refused to try her casserole. Aunt Sheri is now the most popular member of the family and the treasurer of our biggest secret.
Mom stares down each person who approaches the array of food. There’s a twinkle in her eyes that I can’t help but admire. She knows she’s no Michelin-star chef, yet she’s here, boldly daring anyone to utter a word about her culinary attempts at finding purpose after retiring from coaching figure skating.
I scan the room for a seat while comparison-heavy conversation floats around. I pass by my uncles bickering over their recent fish catches on one side of the table, only to hear a gathering of cousins bragging about their run times on the other.
No matter where I go, I can’t escape this world of one-upmanship. I’m halfway through the sports journalism major that’s slowly killing me with every lecture I attend. And that’s after switching from sports management, which was before changing over from sports medicine. There was also sports marketing before that.
To fit into this family, you either join those adding trophies to the line or become well-versed in discussing the skills that got them there.
And I’d rather give away my Poshmark Christian Louboutin heels than do either of those.
I’ve wanted to change my current major so many times, but the one thing holding me back is that look in my father’s eyes, the one that says I’m a disappointment.
Plus, there’s the bit where I’d need to pay him back for an unfinished degree.
So now I juggle both, the thing I can’t quit, and the thing that makes me come alive.
But Fiona’s call is the hand pulling me out of the swamp I’ve been drowning in, offering me a chance at happiness. Quitting my degree and pursuing image consulting would still leave my family disappointed, but at least I’d feel alive. And if I want to go any further and take on in-person clients, I’ll need training. I may have only applied for Fiona’s scholarship after my best friend Hayley basically forced me into it, but now that this opportunity is in front of me, I can’t pass up the chance to learn fromtheindustry icon.
The irony is that the one pursuit I’ve never lost interest in is also the same thing my family doesn’t take seriously. Color and style are something I finallydon’twant to quit, yet my guilty passion has become my biggest secret. I’ve been working harder than ever, fumbling my way through earning a degree I don’t want while I spend every spare second pouring myself into minicourses and growing my social media, and it’s given me more of a sense of purpose than ever before.
And I’m actually good at it. Hayley has let me tweak her closet, pulling together outfits for job interviews and presentations, and I’ve watched her glow with confidence.
Can I help it that, as much as I try, I’m not interested in any of the things my family values so highly? Or that I can’t seem to evoke the required devotion into my family lore?
Other families take vacations. We take podiums.
That’s a direct quote from my dad.
I settle on an open seat beside my cousin Emily and her new boyfriend, Kyle, akaDr. Nose Job, intrigued by this non-sports-related addition to the Memorial Day family gathering.
Does he know about the trophy-driven circus he’s entered into? Or is the man unfazed by being in the wrong career for this family, one that requires evidence of athletic accomplishments and a uniform of some color variation of cat vomit?
God, I hope it’s the latter. It would be nice to have someone to look up to.
Emily is poking at her salad with her two-inch, warm nude-colored nails. The shade does nothing for her obviously cool skin tone, making her appear grey and pasty. She pauses as her eyes graze over my dress and up to my face, lifting a fork and three talons briefly in my direction. “Kyle, this is my cousin, Willow.”
“Hey.” I smile before Juliet shuffles in beside me.
Great—now the man whose literal job is making people beautiful can compare me to the deluxe version. At least I’m better dressed than my sister is.
Kyle turns to Juliet after Emily introduces them. “Juliet, this might be a weird question, but…is your nose real?”
Juliet giggles. “As real and original as they come.”
“Wow. Can I touch it?”
“Kyle,” Emily huffs. “You’re doing that thing…”
“Babe, she’s got the perfect nose. It’s research.” He shrugs.
Juliet lets out another gentle puff of laughter. “It’s fine, I’ve been told I have great features. Prod away.” She shimmies her shoulders, turning her nose up and leaning an inch closer to Kyle.
Emily resumes poking at the same piece of lettuce as she lazily scrolls on her phone, her nails making a tapping noise.
