I’m completely MORTIFIED.
So, I’ve been sick going on three weeks now, right? After going back and forth between head cold/stomach flu/head cold/stomach flu, the bug has settled into a melon-splitting sinus infection which absolutely REFUSES to go away. Read, no health insurance at the moment. The constant pain between my eyes is excruciating. And now, MP has it — Booger Light with a side of cough and smoker’s voice.
So you get it. I’m exhausted. I haven’t showered in two days. I haven’t brushed my teeth all day. I’m a mess. Today, MP and I holed up and played hooky.
The Boy calls and I mention how good a Domino’s pizza sounds, but they don’t deliver to my house and sadly, there’s no way I’m going ANYWHERE looking like Danny Partridge. Keep in mind, The Boy’s 2,300 miles away, all the way across the country.
A few minutes later, I get a text. “Pizza’s on it’s way. Put on a hat!” I think, “Awww, how sweet! How romantic!” assuming he must have called a pizza place that DOES deliver. And now I don’t have to worry about making dinner! I’m in Heaven. I have the BEST fiance EVAH.
Thirty minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. I throw on a hat, grab a few bucks for tip, open the door, and standing there IS THE BOY’S FATHER. Holding a Domino’s pizza box.
And I want to DIE.
Remember, this IS The Boy’s hometown, so his family is still here. And now his dad, who I’ve spent limited time with, is on my doorstep, looking at me. And I’m looking at him.
I’m braless, I’m makeup-less. The house is a wreck, there are laundry piles everywhere, it’s 5 p.m. and I’m still in my PJs. I cover my mouth and hide my face, sure my breath will knock the poor man clear off the porch. MP comes to my side, also in her PJs. Which are stained with food from lunch. Did I mention she’s wearing plastic purple dress-up heels? And her hair hasn’t been combed all day?
We chat for a few minutes — I have no idea what I’m saying. I’m too busy trying to simultaneously obscure my face AND the view into the living room. I know I should invite him in, but can’t bear the thought. Better to appear rude than let him get TOO close a look at the state of my housekeeping skills. Or my face for that matter.
I know The Boy was being crazy thoughtful. But DUDE. I haven’t been THAT embarrassed since I greeted the UPS man at the door with my bare boob hanging out. Ah, the Newborn Breastfeeding Days …
The Boy’s goin’ DOWN.