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And then I do what any emotionally regulated, high-functioning woman would do: I dig out the sewing kit with shaking hands and start stitching like I’m defusing a glitter-covered bomb.
At six o’clock, Sarah’s finally watching cartoons, the costume is patched, and I’m in the shower trying to wash the day off. I’ve got exactly one hour until Gage arrives.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I definitely didn’t need time to light a candle or sit cross-legged on my bed and visualize my best-case dinner scenario like a lunatic. I’m totally chill. Very zen. Practically floating.
By 6:30, I’m wrapped in a towel, staring at myself in the mirror like I’ve never had a face before.
Red lipstick? Too much.
Gloss? Too casual.
Red? Sexy. Confident. Dangerously close to trying too hard.
Gloss? Effortless. Barely-trying. Possibly boring.
I hold both up like I’m consulting a jury. “What do you think?”
Sarah appears in my bedroom doorway and walks into the room holding her stomach. “I don’t feel?—”
And then she vomits.
All over my bed.
All over the dress I just laid out.
All over the last shred of sanity I was clinging to.
I stand there for a solid five seconds, staring at the dress that is now aggressively dead. Sarah’s crying. My hair is still wet. I’m somehow freezing and sweating. And I’m supposed to be seducing a man in less than an hour.
I contemplate grabbing a towel and blotting at the crime scene like that would fix the situation, but Sarah needs me, so I shift gears.
I clean her up, tuck her into a blanket on the couch with a bowl in case round two happens, and give her mommy hugs until she’s okay. She snuggles in like it’s just another Monday and not the final act of my personal apocalypse.
I walk back into the bedroom, stare at the vomit-covered dress again, and release a breath I’ve apparently been holding for six years.
That’s when my phone buzzes with a text.
I hesitate.
I haven’t checked my messages since I sent out the sibling distress signal, and frankly, I’m not sure I’m emotionally stable enough to witness whatever Tim has decided to contribute to the situation. But at this point, what else could possibly go wrong?
The dress is dead. The child is sticky. My grip on life is holding by a thread.
I check the screen, hoping,praying, for something mildly helpful.
I get Marin.
Marin:
Babes. Gentle reminder that I cleared my entire schedule for tonight’s DATE LIVESTREAM.
Me:
Livestream???
Marin:
Ummmm the verbal soft launch you did this morning when you casually mentioned mid-PR meeting that GAGE MOTHEREFFING BLACK is taking you to dinner??