I got flashed by my mom
Spring Break in flashes:
I sit at the kitchen table with my dad, playing cribbage. It’s dark out and you can see the neighbors’ windows glowing orange through the black trees. I’m about 20 pegs behind.
Dad picks up his blue peg and, pretending that his blue peg is talking to my red peg, squeaks, “What’s that, Julie? I can’t hear you. You’re too far behind. Perhaps you should call me, or send an e-mail.”
*
Me, mom, and dad sit in a Colon Health seminar on a Saturday morning. Geriatrics with blue hair filter in, and the median age of the crowd is about 80. I've never seen so many fanny packs in my life. I feel like standing up and announcing, “Hello everyone. I am 22 years old, and this is my spring break. It’s some ungodly hour on a Saturday morning and I’m here, with my parents, to learn about my colon. I better get into Heaven for this.”
*
Thursday night, Lisa, mom, and I sit at the kitchen table, reminiscing about the intervention Lisa and I staged a few years ago, surrounding Amy’s ill-fitting bras.
“You didn’t notice that?” Lisa asks mom, incredulous. “She had four boobs.” Lisa diagrams the problem, dissecting her own chest into four quadrants.
“She did?” Mom asks. “I never noticed that she had that problem. Four boobs?”
I say, “I believe the technical term for it is ‘quadra-boob.’”
The next thing we know, mom is flashing us. She pulls up her shirt and asks, “Do I have quadra-boob??”
*
Thursday night, Lisa and I sit on my bed in our pajamas. Mostly she talks, about Cleveland and work and married life, and I listen. It’s the first time I’ve seen Lisa alone - without Joe - in what feels like forever. Not that I mind Joe; I love that stud. But I feel really greedy of her time alone with me. For some reason, even when I’m in Columbus, Cleveland seems impossibly far away. So we talk and I listen and laugh and it seems as though we’re much younger than we are.
*
Friday, Amy has school off and we go cake tasting and wedding dress shopping. Amy, mom, and I stand at the glass counter of the bakery, shoveling little rectangles of cake into our mouths. It’s sheer bridal madness. I spoon straight icing into my mouth and ask mom to pass me another piece. “What kind do you want?” she asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, crumbs falling out of my mouth, “just pick one.” It’s fun and ritualistic and I planned ahead and wore sweat pants.
“I know I don’t want a chocolate wedding cake,” Amy says as she reaches over for a square of chocolate cake to sample. We mostly came in just to eat free cake. Amy already knows what kind she wants. As such, it is one glorious, confectionary free-for-all, and for a moment, standing at that glass counter which is now smudged with icing and greedy fingerprints, I think to myself, “Okay, so maybe this is why people get married. I might finally get it.”
When we get to the fancy bridal boutique, it occurs to us that perhaps dress-trying-on should have come before cake sampling. But, Amy slides into the white dresses nicely, so it’s okay. Mom, Lisa, and I sit in regal chairs as Amy tries on a handful of shiny, sleek dresses. There are mirrors all over this place, and I stare at my reflection and think, “I really should’ve done my hair today. Perhaps this is why I am not yet married.”
But Amy looks so beautiful in these dresses. Each one looks more beautiful than the last one; we keep gasping louder when she comes out with the next dress. A tad dramatic, but we do. Well-dressed women in high heels flutter around in the background, helping other brides-to-be, while Amy stands on the little pedestal like one of those ballerinas in a music box. Oh my God this is so real.
Watching your twin get married is a complicated thing. But she looks so lovely in these white dresses.
*
Now the house is hushed. Amy is in West Virginia with Joe, and Lisa left for Cleveland a few hours ago. I leave tomorrow and I sort of want to and I sort of don’t. There’s a doughnut sitting on the kitchen table for me. Dad went to Kroger’s today and on his way out asked me if I wanted anything.
“Yes!” I said. “A treat. Get me a treat.”
When mom and I got back from shopping, there was a doughnut on the kitchen table. Oh, daddy.
But the silence now is acute and oppressive and I wonder if my sisters’ breaths get caught in their throats as they drive away, too.
I sit at the kitchen table with my dad, playing cribbage. It’s dark out and you can see the neighbors’ windows glowing orange through the black trees. I’m about 20 pegs behind.
Dad picks up his blue peg and, pretending that his blue peg is talking to my red peg, squeaks, “What’s that, Julie? I can’t hear you. You’re too far behind. Perhaps you should call me, or send an e-mail.”
*
Me, mom, and dad sit in a Colon Health seminar on a Saturday morning. Geriatrics with blue hair filter in, and the median age of the crowd is about 80. I've never seen so many fanny packs in my life. I feel like standing up and announcing, “Hello everyone. I am 22 years old, and this is my spring break. It’s some ungodly hour on a Saturday morning and I’m here, with my parents, to learn about my colon. I better get into Heaven for this.”
*
Thursday night, Lisa, mom, and I sit at the kitchen table, reminiscing about the intervention Lisa and I staged a few years ago, surrounding Amy’s ill-fitting bras.
“You didn’t notice that?” Lisa asks mom, incredulous. “She had four boobs.” Lisa diagrams the problem, dissecting her own chest into four quadrants.
“She did?” Mom asks. “I never noticed that she had that problem. Four boobs?”
I say, “I believe the technical term for it is ‘quadra-boob.’”
The next thing we know, mom is flashing us. She pulls up her shirt and asks, “Do I have quadra-boob??”
*
Thursday night, Lisa and I sit on my bed in our pajamas. Mostly she talks, about Cleveland and work and married life, and I listen. It’s the first time I’ve seen Lisa alone - without Joe - in what feels like forever. Not that I mind Joe; I love that stud. But I feel really greedy of her time alone with me. For some reason, even when I’m in Columbus, Cleveland seems impossibly far away. So we talk and I listen and laugh and it seems as though we’re much younger than we are.
*
Friday, Amy has school off and we go cake tasting and wedding dress shopping. Amy, mom, and I stand at the glass counter of the bakery, shoveling little rectangles of cake into our mouths. It’s sheer bridal madness. I spoon straight icing into my mouth and ask mom to pass me another piece. “What kind do you want?” she asks.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, crumbs falling out of my mouth, “just pick one.” It’s fun and ritualistic and I planned ahead and wore sweat pants.
“I know I don’t want a chocolate wedding cake,” Amy says as she reaches over for a square of chocolate cake to sample. We mostly came in just to eat free cake. Amy already knows what kind she wants. As such, it is one glorious, confectionary free-for-all, and for a moment, standing at that glass counter which is now smudged with icing and greedy fingerprints, I think to myself, “Okay, so maybe this is why people get married. I might finally get it.”
When we get to the fancy bridal boutique, it occurs to us that perhaps dress-trying-on should have come before cake sampling. But, Amy slides into the white dresses nicely, so it’s okay. Mom, Lisa, and I sit in regal chairs as Amy tries on a handful of shiny, sleek dresses. There are mirrors all over this place, and I stare at my reflection and think, “I really should’ve done my hair today. Perhaps this is why I am not yet married.”
But Amy looks so beautiful in these dresses. Each one looks more beautiful than the last one; we keep gasping louder when she comes out with the next dress. A tad dramatic, but we do. Well-dressed women in high heels flutter around in the background, helping other brides-to-be, while Amy stands on the little pedestal like one of those ballerinas in a music box. Oh my God this is so real.
Watching your twin get married is a complicated thing. But she looks so lovely in these white dresses.
*
Now the house is hushed. Amy is in West Virginia with Joe, and Lisa left for Cleveland a few hours ago. I leave tomorrow and I sort of want to and I sort of don’t. There’s a doughnut sitting on the kitchen table for me. Dad went to Kroger’s today and on his way out asked me if I wanted anything.
“Yes!” I said. “A treat. Get me a treat.”
When mom and I got back from shopping, there was a doughnut on the kitchen table. Oh, daddy.
But the silence now is acute and oppressive and I wonder if my sisters’ breaths get caught in their throats as they drive away, too.