Saturday night was John’s graduation from UC Santa Cruz, which gloriously involved me seated at a table solely representing estrogen as 8 Italian guys explained a woman’s role to me. Highlights include John’s brother grabbing his belly and referring to it as the fuel tank for his sex machine and my making a toast which I do not remember.
Before leaving, Mikey and I were getting ready for our respective nights out, and lately he’s been instructed to be honest and tell me when I look like ass. He’s slowly getting better at this, but going from Honorary Roomie, who will say “Change immediately!” to Mikey’s standard, “Um, yeah… What?” is challenging.
Saturday night, I was really putting him to the test.
Twirling around the bathroom in my new blue dress, I asked. “Hair up or down?”
I demonstrated hair up. I demonstrated hair down.
“Yeah. Unless, I mean, do you want it up?”
“Well, it’s so hot out.”
“Lemme see it up again.”
I stuck my hair up and rummaged through my jewelry.
“Okay, which earrings?” I asked, sporting a hoop on the left lobe and a silver dangly thing on the right.
“Yeah. Unless, you like those other ones. I, um, I don’t know, Beth.”
I would like to point out that when asked which shoes Mike should wear, I curtly responded “Flops.” No hemming and hawing.
Flops. And roll your cuffs.
Finally, running wildly late with a different shoe on each foot and a different bracelet on each wrist, I said, “Or I could not wear this dress.”
Suddenly, he looks up. “Yeah. I’m not really a fan of that dress…”