If you look like shit and smell like shit...

I arose to the sound of my neighbor’s snores seeping through my bedroom floor Saturday morning. He’s attractive in an Abercrombie and Fitch kind of way, so I forgave the snores, but not for the fact he actually works at Abercrombie and Fitch. “Maybe he’s an undercover documentary maker preparing for his next project, ‘Half Naked Youth, Soulless and Brainless,’” my sister Emily offered. But no, he also drives an F150.

The only true conversation we have had wasn’t a conversation at all:

It was the decent thing to do. But not completely sure I was decent, I knocked anyways. It was late, but I could see light escaping from between the complex’s cheap mini blinds. He answered the door with a “What the hell?” look as I stood framed in the bright doorway.

“Your keys,” was all I could get out. His eyes narrowed in confusion. “You left your keys in the door.” And I unnaturally jabbed in the direction of the open door.

“Oh” was his only reply.

“Yeah” was mine.

Since then, we are on a head nod/arm raise bases. Abercrombie will noncommittally nod in my direction with no effort of a “hello.” And I will raise my arm in the air in reply with no effort to even wave it side to side.

Intimate.

I slid out of bed before realizing my entire left leg was still having pleasant dreams, unaffected by the snores. As a result I quickly melt to the ground, yelping in pain as my leg felt like nails were exploding from its core. “Fuck” naturally came out.

And on my bedroom floor lying as still as I could be, willing blood to quickly reach my left set of toes, I noticed the snoring had stopped. And I smiled, hoping my fall had awoken Abercrombie as his snores had arisen me. The sound of a toilet flushing a minute later confirmed my hopes. And although I was still confined to the floor, I glowed with vengeful glee.

I showered as quickly as I could, deciding no one would see nor touch any place needing shaving, so once again, I skipped that chore. As I wrapped the white terry cloth around my body, I avoided looking into the mirror in case the steam was not solid. I never like the way I look. Even when I feel good. Even when I feel beautiful or sexy. The vision in my mind is always better than the reality. So why ask Reality to visit?

My cell phone rang and vibrated itself off my bedside table. Uncharacteristically I answered before checking who the caller was.

“What are you wearing?” the voice asked before my questioned “hello” fully sounded.

“Presently?”

“I’m wearing that red dress. You know. The one I got last weekend. The one I texted you about.” My younger sister Meredith likes to ask questions without waiting for the answers. She also likes texting pictures of clothing she was considering buying. I never looked at the pictures. Instead, offered adjectives based on my mood at the time. “Ravishing” when I was hungry. “Dreamy” when I was tired. “Bitchin’ dress” when I thought she was literally a “bitch in a dress.”

“Oh. Bitchin’ dress.”

“I know. So what time do I need to be there?”

“Uh…”

“Is Emily bringing him?” She stressed “him” to show her disgust and to dramatize the fact she refused to say his name.

“Well…”

“Honestly, I don’t know what she sees in him. I mean, sure, the money. Shit, I mean, he has a lot of money. But even I wouldn’t, you know, for money. She can’t love him, can she?”

“I…”

“Shit, no. She can’t. Right?”

“I…”

“Right. Okay, kid.” She always calls me kid as if I were the baby in the family. “I’ll see you there. The dress is even better in person.”

I didn’t even try to say “bye.” I reminded myself that she is young. Immature. Baby-like. Any other synonym that would make me feel above her in more than just years. But in the end, I felt this was going to be an awful day.

I continued to get ready, considering for a moment wearing red, but thinking the “bitchin’dress” would never let me forget it, so I pulled on khaki pants and a simple charcoal colored blouse.

My mother adored parties slightly more than her daughters. I only hated this fact when I was on the guest list. Today’s party was a Sunday brunch in celebration of, well, nothing in particular. And like all my mother’s parties, alcohol consumption was my life vest in the seas of awkward conversations, set-ups, and drunken come-ons.

I pulled into the long driveway of my parents’ house thankful no one had blocked the entrance, for the street was lined with guests’ cars. It’s not the house my sisters and I grew up in; as unusual as my parents, they traded-up their home for more space when we all moved out. The six bedroom home has a Southern mansion feel with large decorative columns on the white façade. Not my taste.

I let myself in through the back gate, hoping to get a good look at the guests for possible danger zones to avoid and to down a quick mimosa or two. Looking through the outside of the overly draped windows, I saw my father passionately talking to a woman wearing different shades of pink and a man with a bow tie. He vigorously waved his hands around as if he was drowning in the conversation and frantically trying to reach the surface. My mother with her perfect posture was a few steps away, and she intently listened to a woman with big hair standing next to her.

I continued to make my way to the back door, traipsing through my mother’s flower beds when, “Shit.” Literally.

I found the closest potted plant, lifted my foot to the rim, and scraped the bottom of my shoe clean. Fucking poodles.

“You always look like your going to a fucking funeral.”

“Nice to see you too,” I replied dryly, dropping my foot back to the ground.

“So do you love the dress or what?” Meredith threw her arms in the air as if she had just landed a quadruple fucking axel, and I was pleased to see the “bitchin’ dress” had deodorant marks.

I ignored her question and asked one instead, “Did you just get here?”

“No, I was inside and saw you. Emily’s here too, and she brought him.”

I stepped passed Meredith and entered the house. She was right behind me, and it reminded me of how Emily and I used to run and hide from her when we were kids just to have a moment’s peace. Now I didn’t need to hide, but find a good looking man for her to flirt with. As I scanned the room for Emily, I kept an eye out for a Meredith distraction.

“Oh my God, look at how skinny Chelsea is,” Meredith didn’t mind talking even if it was to the back of someone’s head. “She’s anorexic,” she added wistfully. “She is so beautiful now.”

I rolled my eyes and increased the speed of my search.

“There they are,” Meredith said, pointing to the balcony above. We maneuvered through the many people we didn’t know, smiling at those we have met, and asking “How are you?” to the ones we knew well but not well enough to wait for a reply.

Emily was standing hand and hand with Jacob, the man formerly known as “him.” She was smiling and nodding in the direction of the older couple with whom they were conversing, stopping every once and awhile to genuinely laugh at a comment. The couple, probably in their fifties, looked familiar, but I couldn’t recall their names or relation to my parents.

“Becca!” Emily smiled, waving us over. “Where have you been?”

We hugged, and I shook hands with Jacob. And I turned to the older couple, hoping someone would re-introduce us.

“Becca, you remember Jacob’s parents,” Emily said, reading my mind.

“Oh, hello. It’s nice to see you again.” That’s why they looked familiar—Jacob’s parents.

“Becca’s the late one. Mom jokes she was even late to her own birth—three weeks past her due date,” Emily laughed, less genuine this time. It was an awful story. Not funny or interesting at all. And I was surprised to learn that she must be nervous.

“Traffic,” I explained with a shrug. “Today. Not in the birthing canal,” I added quickly. I guess I was nervous too but had no idea why. But the Roberts are nice people, and they laughed. A little forced, but none the less, laughed.

After a few more moments of awkward small talk, I excused myself in search of a drink. Meredith tried to come along, but Mrs. Roberts asked her a question, making her departure impossible at the moment.

I made my way to the bar, trying to make as little eye contact as possible to avoid guests I might know and be forced to stop and talk to.

Squeezing between a table of fruit trays and a man who at a previous party started a dance train, I found my heart’s desire.

“A mimosa, please,” I told the bar tender. When he picked up a champagne flute, I asked if there were any larger glasses. He just stared at me with his mouth slightly open. “Nevermind. That’s great,” I whispered, waving away my request, slightly embarrassed.

“I guess it’s too early to be serving the good stuff,” a deep voice behind me said. I turned to see a scruffy haired man in jeans and a faded t-shirt. He seemed out of place in this stuffy, grey-haired, diamond trotting, smoke piping room.

“Well, my grandfather always says it’s five o’clock somewhere.” Fuck. I sound like an idiot. And I downed my mimosa and turned to the bartender for another one.

“It was my grandmother who said it in my family,” the same deep voice behind me said. With a fresh mimosa in hand, I turned and smiled. “So do all rich people have brunches that include a bartender but no pancakes in sight?” His eyes were piercingly blue. The circular borders were a few shades darker than the cores of the eyes as if a child had outlined the circumference to ensure staying within the lines.

“They drink their meals,” I explained.

“You included?” he asked, crumpling his hair, and I wondered if he was flirting with me. I shook myself out of that let down waiting to happen to realize I had just found a Meredith distraction.

“When in Rome,” a cliché and a drunk, smooth.

“Right,” he smiled and crumpled his hair again. “This may be a weird question but does it smell like shit in here to you?”

“Oh God.” I lifted up my shoe. “It’s me.”

His eyes widened as he looked from my feet to every square inch of the room to avoid my eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed for saying something or embarrassed for me for smelling like shit. I didn’t wait to find out. “Fuck. Excuse me.”

I quickly made my way to the back door, when I heard Jacob’s voice echoing through the entire house. “Excuse me, everyone. May I have your attention?” You’ve got to be kidding me? He’s not. Not him. “Since we are all gathered here, I wanted to share with you all, well…” Shit. Shit. “Last night, I asked Emily to marry me. And she agreed to make me the happiest man on this earth.” He leaned over and gently kissed the blushing Emily. The guests clapped and cheered with sophistication, calling out phrases like “bravo” and “here, here.” Across the room, for the first time in her life, Meredith was speechless. My mother glowed as I’m sure she visualized the many parties she would now need to throw. My dear father had tears in his eyes, his arms lay quietly by his side.

And I, I smelled like I felt.