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Lorraine
I pull into the all too familiar driveway at my parents’ house and park in front of the garage, but make no immediate moves to get out of my car. Instead, I check my reflection in the rearview mirror for the hundredth time. My stomach is curled in tight knots, a sure sign that I’m tense.
I rub at my cheeks, frustrated by my pale complexion and hoping that a quick pinch on either side will bring a little life to my face because I’m nervous about tonight’s family dinner, even though I’ve had weekly dinner with my parents every Sunday since I started college two years ago. I love our little tradition, and I really value seeing my parents each week, come rain or shine.
Except it’s not just family tonight, I remind myself grimly. On my drive over to my parents’ place, my mom called to let me know that Dad showed up after work with a guest for dinner, and I had better not be late. Despite my protestations that I needed to go home and change my clothes if we were going to have company, Mom insisted that I hightail it to the house and not stress about my appearance.
So now, here I am. I swipe at my hair, wishing I’d straightened it, but I basically rolled out of bed this morning in a rush. As a result, the brunette strands hang in large, full waves past my shoulders, but the impending cold weather has made them frizzier than usual.
It’s no use and I sit back against my seat in a huff. So what if I look terrible? So what if my hair is frizzy and untamable? So what if my outfit is all wrong? There are more important things in life than looks, right? I just have to suck it up and go inside.
But still, I glance down at my clothes with dismay. My excuse is that it was laundry day. Actually, it’s been laundry day for the last week and a half, so this morning I threw on some random items lying on the floor since I thought it was just going to be my parents and me hanging out tonight.
But now, I’m regretting it. I grimace as I take in my short skirt, usually reserved for the occasional night out on the town, and the soft, clingy sweater that’s a little too tight in the bust. I fidget with the neckline, desperate to hide my cleavage, but of course it’s no use. The scooped sweater dips low, and I guess I’m just going to have to smile and bear it, even if it’s embarrassing.
