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I’m growing bored.
I want more in life. Different.
I don’t want to attend this gala.
And Michael Randall?
I’m just not interested.
And that right there is perplexing because Michael is handsome, successful, and from what I know, a good man.
Another text comes in while I’m fighting with my brain.
Mom: Are you free tomorrow for lunch? We should strategize.
I reach to undo another button on my blouse, at which point I realize I can’t undo any more. I’m already showing too much cleavage.
When my phone sounds with another text, I almost throw it across the bathroom.
I take a moment before reading the message.
If I was still recharging my vibration, I’d likely close my eyes and recite one of those ridiculous affirmations Jenna put me onto.All I need is within me right now.No, thank you. Not for me. And as far as I’m concerned, anyone who thinks reciting affirmations will fix anything in their life needs a good talking to. Not to mention a list of practical tasks they’d be better spending their time on.
I don’t even know what a vibration is, let alone how to recharge it. Jenna tried explaining it, but I swear she was talking in another language.
Another godforsaken text lights up my phone and I finally,finally, lose my last thread of sanity.
“No, I don’t want to wear that gold fucking dress!” I screech at my phone while stabbing at it to open the messages. “And I don’t want to bat my fucking lashes at Michael Randall, or make small talk with him, or sell my soul for a fucking date with him!”
By the time I get all those words out of me, I’m breathing hard and fast.
My head may explode any minute.
And I’m sweating.
My blouse is sticking to me, which is just another perplexing thing because I don’t perspire. Even when I exercise, I barely break a sweat.
I glance down at my phone and note the second text wasn’t from my mother. It was from Lila James, a girl I went to school with. I read her message first.
Lila: Hi Kristen, just a quick heads up that our annual reunion will be in January now rather than April. An invitation will go out, but I wanted to give you extra notice. The new date is January 14. Looking forward to seeing you there.
I thought her text would be far less of an assault to my mind than Mom’s.
I was wrong.
I now have six weeks to find someone to escort me to that class reunion. Which usually would be fine, but when one is in the middle of a mid-life crisis and apparently contemplating asexuality (if one’s extreme disinterest in Michael Randall is anything to go by) the last thing one wants to do is search for a date to a reunion. I have a mind to challenge her on the regularity of these reunions. Most classes hold them every five or ten years, but no, not our class. We’re overachievers. Lila insists on seeing everyone every year.
My early menopause kicks in harder and I contemplate removing every scrap of material from my body. I’m halfway through that thought when a woman enters the bathroom. She doesn’t notice me before locking herself into a cubicle, which is a good thing. I’m in no state to be seen by anyone right now.
I switch to my mother’s message.
Mom: I just heard that Andrew Barry is also attending the gala. He’s just back from London after expanding his company. I’m going to ask Candy to change the seating plan so you’re at a table with both Andrew and Michael.
This is too much. And suddenly, I’m aware of where today’s fresh round of hell is coming from. I’ve finally reached the end of my lifelong patience with my mother and her matchmaking.
I can’t do it anymore. Not for a second longer.
Yes, I want to find love, but these days I no longer think about dating in the way I used to.
