Well, if you can like me when I look like that…
Imagine the worst possible scenario EVER —
- You win the lottery but accidentally throw away the ticket
- You spend six months editing a film, only to lose everything when your hard drive crashes the day before you planned to a major back up
- Huge pit stains on your way into a job interview
- You chat with a guy online over a few weeks, find yourself falling for him and sharing intimate details, only to meet him in person and discover that “Juan” is actually “John,” your brother
- The tattoo you get, what you thought was the Chinese symbol for “peace,” is actually the Chinese symbol for “I heart Rush Limbaugh”
All wrong. The worst case scenario EVER is one I found myself in last Friday.
Boyfriend’s mom was in town from Louisiana, and I was supposed to meet her for the first time Friday evening. I had a text and voicemail from Boyfriend when I left the gym at about noon – “If you get this in the next five minutes, call me.” They were down the street and had Giordano’s leftovers that they didn’t want to go to waste or cart around on their downtown adventure, so he wanted to know if I was home so he could throw them in my fridge. Five hours before the agreed upon time.
I may not be a supermodel in regular-mode, but I am a sight for sore eyes post-workout. Hair frizzing out in ways you didn’t know was possible, flushed face dripping with continuously-forming sweat beads, faded spandex clinging to rolls and bulges, stench waves that I can only imagine smell like raw onion, vinegar, liverwurst, diesel gas, and rotten eggs emanating from my pores. And my place was a disaster, with random dirty dishes, Percy the handyman droppings, Chicago alley acquisitions, and bras strewn about. But what am I going to do, say no? And so that’s how I found myself meeting Boyfriend’s mom for the first time looking [and smelling] like a tore-up street tramp in a tore-up trailer park.
Memories of the following evening up at my mom’s in Evanston, with the combination of comfy Italian food at the dining room table in comfy jeans and flip-flops, Pictionary, and Molly’s cupcakes, I hope replaced images of the day previous. My invitation to Christmas in Louisiana was not revoked, so there’s hope…