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Luckily, at that moment, she seems to register me where I‘m sitting at the counter. She stops dead. “Or, more to the point, penny for why on earth you’re dressed likethat?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and opt to answer only her second question. “It’s sports attire.”
“What sport? Competitive getting-dressed-in-the-dark?” Mom raises her overplucked brows at me.
“Says the woman wearing a dead llama.”
Mom laughs airily. She may be in her late 50’s but she’s still making the same risky fashion choices as ever, believing that she’s the height of sophistication. And no matter what bizarre style she wears, she always looks like she’s put effort into her appearance. I definitely got my confidence, grit and determination from her.
“One hundred percent synthetic, sugarplum. No wildlife were harmed in the making of this high fashion garment.”
“Well, that’s one less crime committed, I guess.” I say. “It’s a… bold choice. Brave.”
“Fashionforward.” Mom tuts. “Which is more than I can say for those pants. You look like you got lost in 2008. And I can see your panty line through them.”
Why, oh why, is my mother so obsessed with my underwear choices?
I groan and loll my head forward, touching it to the kitchen table. “Ughhh. Is it that bad?”
“Yes.” She sits in the chair next to me and picks up my waffle, takes a bite. Then, she reaches for my coffee. I swat her hand away.
“There’s some in the pot, I made extra for you.” I smile at her hopefully. “Do you happen to own any sports clothes fabricated this decade?”
Mom wrinkles her nose. “Darling, ladies don’t sweat… at least, not since the Jane Fonda craze in the 80’s.”
Interesting (read: bizarre) perspective… but that should also tell you where I got my lack of athleticism. Mom and I do not do sports. Or anything involving hand-eye coordination beyond putting on mascara. Both of us also loathe the athleisure beloved by so many.
Which puts me in a predicament for today’s baseball game.
Our uniform t-shirts—not quite sure what design Vanessa picked out in the end—haven’t arrived yet, so for today’s game, we were told to wear our own sports gear. And while I know that the Vanessas and Mindys of this world will come decked out in cute shorts and tank tops, I don’t have anything even close to cute. My only “sports gear” consists of a mid-noughties pair of Victoria’s Secret flared yoga pants in—you guessed it—neon pink. Complete with a foldover waistband and the word “PINK” written in rhinestones across the butt.
I found them in the back of my teenage treasure trove of a closet, alongside some extra chunky, silver-accented Skechers Shape Ups.
Yup. Seriously.
If this was 2008, I’d be at the height of fashion.
“Please, Mom, I’m desperate.”
Mom runs a critical eye over me. “Why?”
Because Liam will see.
“Because it’s a work function,” I say reasonably. “And I look ridiculous.”
“You always look ridiculous! Just last week, you wore three clashing colors in one outfit.”
“Gee, thanks Mom.”
“What I’m saying is—-what makes this different?”
I tear off a piece of my waffle and start breaking it into crumbs. “Why the third degree?”
She winks at me. “Because I know a woman with a crush when I see one.”
I let out a long breath. “Mom…”
“Annie, darling, you deserve every happiness after what happened with Justin. And that Liam boy was just delicious.” She makes an obscene face that I’m going to go broke having to work through in therapy. “A word of advice, dear. Don’t change who you are for him. Be yourself. You’re more than loveable the way you are.”
