The Journal of Mortifying Moments

by Robyn Harding

  “It was awful!” I wail as we race home down the I-90.

  “Tell me what happened!” Sam demands, his driving speed mounting with his frustration.

  “Are you blind?” I shriek. “Didn’t you see how they were treating me?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t. That’s why I’m asking you what happened!”

  “Just forget it,” I say, sulking back into my seat. “If you didn’t notice, then I’m not going to tell you.”

  “That’s just great!” he growls. “You make us leave the party because you’re having such an awful time, and now you won’t even tell me why. Nice.”

  “It wasn’t one specific thing, Sam!” I yell. “It was the prevailing attitude of all those stuck-up jerks you work with. They were all looking down their noses at me, like I’m one of your disposable dates whom they’ll never see again.”

  “They don’t think that, Kerry!”

  “They do! No one even knew we were engaged. And when they noticed the ring, they were all like, ‘What a beautiful ring. Where’d you get it?’ Gasp. ‘From Sam? You’re kidding! We had no idea! I wouldn’t have thought Sam would ever settle down.’ ”

  “That’s my fault,” Sam says, his voice lowering slightly. “I don’t share my personal life with my coworkers. They didn’t know I was engaged. They were surprised, that’s all.”

  “And who is this Caroline person?” I continue, ignoring him. “Why haven’t you ever mentioned her before?”

  “She’s our new administrative coordinator,” he says, flustered. “I didn’t mention her because I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  “Oh, right!” I bark. “Why would I be interested? Why would I care that my fiancé is working closely with a former swimsuit model with silicone D-cups!”

  “She was a runway model, not just a swimsuit model.”

  “Oh! Now you’re defending her! Is something going on between you two?”

  “Kerry, stop it! You’re being paranoid.”

  “Oh, really? Like I was paranoid when you cheated on me with Jasmine?”

  “I can’t believe you’re bringing that up!” he bellows. “We said we’d put the past behind us!”

  He’s right; we did say that. And I thought I had. But suddenly, it feels like only yesterday that I was lying on the couch, my cheeks swollen to the size of Caroline’s breasts while Sam told me he was leaving but it had nothing to do with the sexy consultant he’d been working with. I feel emotionally unglued, mentally unhinged! What is wrong with me? Of course, the eight or so glasses of champagne are not exactly helping things. I burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry.” Tears of self-pity pour down my cheeks. “But tonight I felt like . . . like . . . everyone was in shock that you were engaged to someone as fat and stupid as me!”

  “You’re drunk,” he says, annoyed. “That’s crazy.”

  “Oh! So now I’m fat, stupid, drunk, and crazy! Thanks Sam. You’re really making me feel a lot better.”

  “Calm down,” he says. “You’re being hysterical.”

  “Great! Now I’m fat, stupid, drunk, crazy, and—”

  “Don’t!” He roars. He pulls the car off onto a side street and slams it into park. He turns to me. “I’m sorry to yell, but you have to stop this. I can’t stand all this self-deprecation.”

  “But—but—it’s how I feel,” I sob. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with us?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with us!” Sam says, gripping me by the shoulders. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

  “I know there’s not!” I shriek, pulling away. “That’s the problem, Why do I feel this way? I’m thirty-one years old, and you’ve turned me into an insecure teenager!”

  “I’ve turned you into an insecure teenager?”

  “I don’t mean that you’ve actually done anything consciously. . . . I just mean that you . . . this relationship . . . It makes me feel . . .” I trail off.

  Sam turns away from me and puts the car into gear. Without a word, he pulls it back onto the street, heading toward home.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, suddenly gripped with panic. “You’re right. I’m being hysterical.”

  “You can’t help how you feel, Kerry,” he says impassively.

  “It’s the stress of Christmas and the engagement,” I babble. “My mother’s been phoning me every five minutes to talk about bridesmaid’s dresses or get the measurement of another one of your body parts. It’s wearing on me. I’m just not feeling myself. And I know I drank too much tonight. I’m not thinking straight.”

  He is silent and hostile, so I follow suit. The rest of the ride home is quiet but for the sound of tires on wet pavement, and the rhythmic slapping of windshield wipers. When we pull up in front of my building, he doesn’t turn the car off.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” I ask frostily.

  “I think it would be better if we spent the night apart,” he says, looking straight ahead. “To give us some time to collect our thoughts.”

  “Fine,” I say angrily as I undo my seat belt. “Collect away!” I jump out and slam the door behind me. As I stomp up the walk to my building, I realize that “collect away” was an inane retort and not at all indicative of the feelings I was trying to relay. But it’s too late now. I dig angrily for my keys, which seem to have disappeared into the furthest recesses of my purse. I can’t believe Sam doesn’t want to talk about the events of this evening! Everyone knows you’re not supposed to go to bed mad! I am so immersed in my thoughts and the search for my keys that I don’t realize I’ve reached the front steps until I trip on the bottom one. My purse and its contents fly from my grip and go skittering across the doorstep.

  “Shit!!!” I yell, stomping my feet like a two year old who’s dropped her ice cream cone. This really tops it off! “Shit! Shit! Shit!” I look over my shoulder to see if Sam is witnessing my childish tantrum but he is long gone. Very nice. Now I will have to crawl through the muck and hedges to retrieve my belongings all on my own. With tears rolling down my cheeks, I search blindly for my lipstick, my keys, my Palm, my phone. After what feels like an hour I’ve retrieved most items—at least I’ve got my keys. I’ll come back and search in the morning when it’s light. Tomorrow is another day.

  Tomorrow

  9:12 AM

  After a fitful sleep, I am not feeling any more secure or hopeful. I lie diagonally across my spacious bed and ponder the events of the previous evening. Were Sam’s coworkers really looking down their noses at me, or was that just a reflection of my own insecurity? Was he sticking up for the bikini model/administrative coordinator or just stating a fact? Am I a screwed-up basket case, or do I just feel like one when in a relationship with Sam?

  10:22 AM

  I crawl out of bed and trudge to the shower. I will not let my neuroses overwhelm me. I now have many tools in my repertoire to combat these feelings of low self-esteem and lunacy.

  11:15 AM

  I am seated comfortably on the couch with You Get What You Give in my lap. I flick through the pages, searching for the appropriate section. But it seems Dr. Rainbow Hashwarma never had any problems with the opposite sex—or at least none that have any relevance to my current situation. The wise doctor does discuss the challenges of relationships between individuals with different religious beliefs, value systems, and socioeconomic backgrounds. And there is a section on increasing sexual intimacy by becoming a more giving lover, but absolutely nothing on having a boyfriend who is extraordinarily handsome and successful and makes you feel like a big fat frump! Thanks a lot.

  11:47 AM

  The journal of mortifying moments is now open on my lap. The vanilla candle is burning on the end table. I have a cup of herbal tea before me (it is a little early for wine) and a ballpoint pen in hand. I will write down the events of last night in order to examine them, analyze the dynamics of my relationship with Sam, and ultimately heal this dull ache in my chest. Okay . . . here I go. . . .

  But I can’t! I sim
ply can’t! My hand refuses to form the letters that will spell out the disaster of the previous evening. It refuses to create the words that will solidify the dysfunction in my relationship with Sam. I just cannot write this down and give Sam a recurring role in the journal of mortifying moments. He’s the man I’m going to marry, for God’s sake! Even Hugh is only in there once!

  12:12 PM

  Fine. I will meditate. I will breathe deeply . . . clear my mind . . . But meditating doesn’t seem to be working either. Every time I try to clear my mind, I end up conjuring an image of Sam’s handsome face, followed by Caroline in a tiny bikini, and Jasmine in a hard hat and negligee. (I don’t actually know what she looks like, but I’ve created a mental picture of her much like the princess in Aladdin.) I squint my eyes and grip the smooth Zen stones, hoping to chase away these negative vibrations. But soon they return, this time in the form of my grandmother’s cottage-cheese butt—or is it mine?!

  12:25 PM

  I do three sun salutations, triangle pose, pigeon posture, and a shoulder stand. I think I may have dislocated a vertebra (if that is possible).

  12:36 PM

  That’s it! I’m going to phone him. We are two mature individuals who are planning to get married, for God’s sake! Surely we can talk through this one little issue? It’s only our first fight since we’ve been back together.

  “Hi. You’ve reached Sam Miller of Kazzerkoff Developments. Please leave a message and—”

  I hang up. That’s strange. I’ve rarely known Sam to not answer his phone. He must be on the other line with someone else—someone taller and thinner with a smaller ass and bigger boobs! Stop! My imagination is running amok. I’m sure he’s on a business call—or maybe he’s trying to phone me? I must stay off the phone then, to ensure I don’t miss him. But what if he saw it was me calling and is trying to avoid speaking to me?

  12:39 PM

  After several minutes of this manic internal dialogue I decide that the mature thing to do would be to leave a message. I dial his cell phone again.

  “Hi. You’ve reached Sam Miller of Kazzerkoff Developments. Please leave a message, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.”

  I hang up. No, I’m not going to leave a message. Why should I be the one to apologize? It would be setting a bad precedent. If I leave a message today, then every time we have a fight in the future, the onus will be on me to admit it is my fault. He’s not infallible in this! And besides, he drove off, leaving me to rummage through a hedge in the dark! I could have died of hypothermia! Or been attacked by a passing rapist!

  12:41 PM

  After another cup of herbal tea and some toast, I am feeling much more positive. Sam will call me and we will laugh about our silly tiff and all will be well. Tonight, he will escort me to my Christmas party and all the women will drool over him. “Look at Kerry,” they will all be thinking. “She’s so attractive, confident, and happily engaged.” It’s all going to be fine.

  Chapter 29

  Later

  5:30 PM

  Apparently, it is not fine! I still have not heard a word from him. The Christmas party starts at seven. What the hell is going on? Why is he doing this to me? Surely he can’t be that angry about last night, can he? I mean, I admit I was a bit wobbly, but I can’t believe that he’d never speak to me again over it?

  I am pacing the apartment with a glass of red wine in hand. My hair and makeup are done; my underwear and pantyhose are on; my dress is pressed and hanging on a hook on the back of my bedroom door. I take a long slurp of merlot in an attempt to calm my nerves. I look at my watch again. To get there on time I will need to leave in twenty minutes. What should I do?

  Every possible scenario to explain Sam’s absence has played through my mind (including the one where he is sideswiped by an SUV). But something in my gut tells me that he is actually fine and healthy, and that this is some kind of punishment for my behavior the night before. Maybe it’s all over between us and he just hasn’t bothered to tell me? Has he called the wedding off? If so, who would he contact? I rack my brain to think of who might have heard from him. Of course! I pick up the phone and dial.

  “Heyyyyyy, Mom,” I say casually. “Howzit going?”

  “Oh, hello. I’m surprised to be hearing from you. Don’t you have a ‘do’ to go to tonight?”

  Glug glug glug. “Ummm, yes, but I just wanted to call to say ‘Hey, Mom.’ ”

  “Well . . . hey . . .”

  “How’s your day going? Anything interesting happen?”

  “Not really.”

  “Have you talked to anyone?” Pour, refill. glug glug glug.

  “Wellllll . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Just Ruth . . . and Debbie from Vegan Cooking Two.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’d better get going.”

  “Is everything all right, dear?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. I’d better go.”

  “Is Sam there?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll arrive in time. He’s very reliable.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say, my chin quivering with emotion. “Bye.”

  As soon as I hang up, the phone rings. Thank God!

  “Hello?” I say anxiously.

  “Joseph wants to know what gorgeous Sam is wearing tonight,” Trevor says exasperatedly. “He thinks I’m too flamboyant because I’m wearing a black see-through shirt and trousers. He wants to wear a suit, but I think that’s too stuffy, so we wanted to know what Sam is wearing, because I’m sure it will be perfect.”

  “Umm . . . well . . .” Uh-oh. Here I go. “I—I—I don’t know!” I burst into tears.

  “Kerry, what’s wrong?”

  Between sobs and loud nose blows, I manage to stammer out the situation.

  “You’ll come with us,” Trevor says forcefully.

  “I don’t think I want to go,” I snivel. “Everyone will think I’m pathetic, showing up without my fiancé.”

  “You have to go,” he says, dismissing my protestations. “You’re the only person I really like at the office! Fix your makeup, throw on your sexiest party dress, and we’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

  I am feeling a lot better as our taxi cruises through the illuminated streets en route to the hotel. I am sandwiched between Trevor and Joseph, a handsome older gentleman who seems very down-to-earth and warm. It is obvious he is mad about Trevor, and personally, I am looking forward to discussing South Pacific in detail over dinner. Trevor is at his light and funny best, trying to distract me from the trauma I’ve endured over the past twenty-four hours.

  “You are so gorgeous!” he raves, taking in my strapless chocolate-brown dress and strappy heels. “How will Dave ever control himself?”

  “Oh, no!” I say, enjoying the attention. “I will have to enlist you two as bodyguards to keep him away from me!”

  “It’ll cost ya,” Trevor responds. “What do you think, Joseph? A bottle of champagne, and we’re hers for the evening?”

  Joseph plays along. “Sounds about right.”

  “Consider it done,” I say, squeezing Trevor’s hand. “Thanks, pal.” I feel my eyes welling up.

  “None of that!” he admonishes sternly. “Tonight is a night for celebration, not moping over a bratty boyfriend who can’t even pick up the phone to call and apologize for being an inconsiderate jerk!”

  “Hear, hear!” I say jubilantly. The fact that I’ve already imbibed over half a bottle of wine has made getting into the festive spirit much easier.

  But when we pull up in front of the venue for the evening I feel my stomach lurch uncomfortably. How is this going to look when I show up sans the new fiancé I’ve been blabbering on about? Sonja’s words from that afternoon at Rockin’ Robin’s provide a haunting soundtrack: “I look forward to meeting your fiancé at the Christmas party.” (I dismiss the part of the memory where I am dressed as a bird.)

  Trevor and Joseph each take my hand and we march confidently i
nto the grand lobby of the Heritage Hotel. The Ferris & Shannon party is in the Orca Room on the second floor. In the vintage brass elevator, I take deep breaths to keep calm and centered: I am attractive, confident and possibly still engaged. And if not, I am attractive, confident and have two handsome gay dates.

  But for all my inner poise, I visibly wilt upon entering the Orca Room. Is it my imagination or did all four hundred guests just turn to look at me?

  “Take a picture—it’ll last longer!” Trevor calls, verifying my worst suspicions. He whispers to me, “It’s just because we’re the three best-looking people here.”

  “Sure,” I say as we move toward the bar. But it’s almost like I can read their thoughts as I pass by. There’s Carole from accounting thinking, “Hmm . . . where’s her fiancé? Only last week she was gushing on about writing her own vows and china patterns.” And Sue from the studio is wondering, “Where is he? She was going on and on about the seating arrangements for his family just the other day.” And Sonja is thinking—Oh, shit. Sonja.

  “Well, hello.” She slithers toward us in her fitted black pantsuit. “I don’t believe we’ve met?” She addresses Joseph.