Vaseline

The joke was on them, though, when my uber-Christian parents filed for divorce. Nothing humiliated my mother more than having to explain to my teachers that “Mr. Young” didn’t live at our residence anymore, or deciding to switch churches, away from her old friends, so that her face wouldn’t burn under the church members’ scrutiny of her dilapidated marriage.

My life came full circle when I heard words my parents normally said come out of my mouth. 

“Are you really going to wear that?” I asked when my boyfriend showed up at my door wearing shorts and flip-flops. In November. My family was in town visiting for Thanksgiving, and I desperately wanted them to see him as a handsome, respectable, intelligent young man. A suitable young man. One smart enough to know that walking around dressed for the beach during the winter was a stupid idea. 

“What?” He appeared confused as I stared at him in disbelief, imagining all of the smug looks my father would throw at me when he set eyes on Darren.

I made him go back to his room and change clothes after pleading for fifteen minutes. He didn’t understand why and demanded a proper answer but I couldn’t formulate words that would effectively explain my anxiety without causing him to dump me right there and then. 

I couldn’t tell him that he shamed me by being himself. Hallmark doesn’t really make apology cards for mistakes like that. Vaseline definitely doesn’t fix it either.