So I do what I always do. I nodded, my heart snaps a little, I replied with the affirmative, a brick feels like it falls into the pit of my stomach and I smiled at him, tears feel like they run down the back of my throat, even though that’s not even possible.
Pathetic.
I just felt pathetic right now. Sad and embarrassing. I embarrass myself.
**
Monday morning at breakfast and I got a message from Mike before I even woke up.
Today’s the day. Keep your eyes peeled. :)
Smiley face. I’m glad he had a smiley face . I did not. .On the contrary, it was far from smiley.
I walked over to my cupboard and pulled out a pair of jeans, sneakers and a shirt that had “Welcome to Mauritius” written across it. Not fashionable, whatever. I liked shirts from around the world, they reminded me that there were places out there beyond these four walls and the manicured lawns of this picture perfect suburb.
Do you know that they have ‘Best Pavement Awards’ here? Those with the most perfectly topiaried tress and best rose bushes are envied by all. This place oozes a sort of perfection that is both nauseating and worrying. Think Desperate Housewives without the desperation. Because everyone that lives here seems to like it. Love it. I am convinced there’s something far more sinister at play. Some kind of Stepford mind-control that keeps all the woman pretty, cooking and doing the laundry with a smile (except here, they smile while they pay someone else to do the laundry).
Shirt on…time for my hair. My hair is short, shaggy and didn't need styling, so I ran a brush through it and let it fall where it wanted. A mysterious mascara seemed to have found it’s way onto my dressing room table, clearly my mother bought it for me. She insisted I wear it. “We Glover woman are unfortunately blessed with light brown eye lashes. Makes us look like ghosts.” She and my sister smeared the stuff on so thickly that sometimes it looked like they had spiders legs sticking out of their eyeballs…
And then I think of Mike. Suddenly I wondered if wearing mascara might make me appear more ‘girly’? I picked the stuff up, pulled the lid off and gave my lashes a quick coat. But in seconds my eyes felt like they were on fire. I’m not used to this crap. I walked downstairs and my mom immediately sighed at me, she despairs at my wardrobe you see.
“Maria, do you have to wear that? What about the nice top I bought you last week?”
Her disapproving eyes are on me.
“The pink one? The one that looks like if I wear it, my IQ will plummet by ten points?”
“But it’s just like your sister’s.”
“My point exactly,” I said sitting down at the breakfast “nook” as she called it.
“Besides, we’re not six anymore so you can’t expect us to dress the same.” My mom used to love the fact she had twins. We wore matching outfits everywhere.
My mom simply rolled her eyes at me as if she gave up. I wished she would give up, but she never does.
A few moments later my sister flounced down to the table wearing a very swishy skirt and texting as she walked. It’s as if she has eyes at the top of her forehead so she can see where she’s going while she texted. My dad was reading his newspaper, no doubt scanning the business section, looking for crashing, burning businesses that he can snatch up and sell. I’m not sure of the details, but I know he buys failing businesses, then fixes and sells them. And he makes a small fortune doing it, it would seem. Our house (not to mention my mother and sister’s penchant for spending) is a standing testament to this fact. It’s like a shiny beacon of the wealth that is us. Our house is obscene with six bedrooms and more lounges than can ever be occupied even if a small African village full of people moved in. It towers above all the other lavish homes in the area. It basically pulls its big fat bejeweled middle finger at them all and laughs in their upper middle class faces.
My parents liked to be the best, the richest and the ultimate Jones’s to keep up with. Me, I don’t give a shit about that kind of thing and I certainly don’t take advantage of my father’s credit cards like my mother and sister do.
My mom put a plate down in front of me. “What’s this?” I looked down at the plate. The stuff in question looked like it may have been egg in a past life, but it seemed to be the wrong color. Wrong texture too. In fact, on second thoughts, the stuff didn’t even look like food.
“Egg white omelet with kale,” she cooed like she was pleased with herself, which I know she was. She’s always on the latest diet, she goes on diets before anyone else even knows about them, perhaps before they've even been invented. She’s a telepathic dieter. Last week we were gluten free, the week before that dairy free. I’m not sure what this is, what we’re supposed to be free of this week.
“High protein.” She popped a book down on the table, a diet book. “And kale is the new super food.”
I heard my dad grunt from behind the paper, he’s a man of few words, especially when it comes to my mother’s cooking. But then again, who isn’t.
My sister and my mother started to discuss the benefits of yogi berries and soy protein while I tried to chew and swallow the strangely sloppy, yet surprisingly crunchy thing that was currently taking up space in my mouth.
“It’s
