A real-life story about the author, who is me.
The summer of my seventeenth year I was working sixty-eight hours a week and I did pretty much whatever I wanted in my free time. It was mine, right. I should have listened to my mother more, but being the rebellious teenager I was, I thought I was ALWAYS right.
I had, what I consider, two serious boyfriends in my high school career. Both of which broke my little heart. It’s not their fault. They were teenagers.
I thought I was going to marry the first one. Ha. We met at Browns (my first real paying job at the age of 15) when I was a dishwasher and he was a cook. Ah, young love.
And the second, well it just didn’t work out. One of those best friends to lovers’ things, but it didn’t end like a story book.
So, here I was with this new boyfriend the summer after I graduated. Technically my high school diploma says I graduated the year before. But that’s another story.
He was, I think, two years older than me. He had invited me over and I had either just gotten off work or it was the one day I had off. Anyway, I walked from my place of residence to his in my ohh so cute outfit. (I didn’t have a license) I thought I was looking hot in my tube top and short shorts. I was barely wearing anything at all. Who let me wear that? Oh, yeah, I did.
I show up in said outfit to his parents’ house. He still lived with them. Then his mom had declared it was time to eat dinner. WE ALL SAT DOWN AT THE KITCHEN TABLE. I hadn’t experienced anything like this since I was much younger. I didn’t think people actually did this. I thought it was just a fake thing they put in movies so people could have conversations to move the plot along.
Here I am in my skimpy little outfit sitting at the kitchen table having small talk about my day with his parents. I was so embarrassed in my choice of wardrobe. We all know what they were thinking about me, but they never said anything to my face. I’m sure they did when I wasn’t around. Most people did.
The embarrassment, I guess, has burned this into my long-term memory. It wasn’t the last time I wore a questionable outfit, but for whatever reason I remember this time.
This story doesn’t really relate to anything I’ve written recently. I just lost my saved data from yesterday for the book I’m writing and decided to write this instead of wallowing in self-pity.
Maybe I’ll make it a thing? T.M.Shivener releases embarrassing stories from her past.
*Also, I’m sure there are grammatical errors. It is what it is.
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