Sep
02
2008
“No one will ever know,” he said.
“The reporter will be there with a photographer on Thursday morning,” the caller from the newspaper told me. It was perfect, two days to plan and an early enough start that I had a reasonable chance of not having stained my shirt by the time they arrived.
Of course the best laid plans…
Sigh.
The day began with a stain (tooth paste smeared by tiny hands on the counter) followed soon thereafter with an emptying of drawers, furrowing of brow and sweating of upper lip (by a nervous mom). Finally I decided on a top and set about getting the girls ready. I planned to put it on last thing so it didn’t get soiled. Sean kindly offered to iron the shirt for me. Twenty minutes later everyone was dressed so I dashed upstairs to dress.
The one detail I had not considered: fit.
I slipped my arms into the shirt and then went to button it. No dice. Thanks to an incredibly successful breastfeeding relationship with daughter number three, the poor buttons of my shirt couldn’t make it across to the sweet little button holes on the other side of my chest. It would be fair to classify what came next as mild hysteria much to the chagrin of my trying-to-help-me-stay-calm husband.
Fearful of completely wrecking the day and igniting and argument about what is really important, I sighed and threw on a funky t-shirt from Banana Republic and slipped on some kicky red wedge sandals, “Shiny three inch heels can make up for jeans and a T,” I justified in my head.
Back at the office with the photographer and Melissa, I was relaxed, the breakdown of earlier all but forgotten.
“Ok, Melissa, you stand here. Over just a touch, look this way. Ok, perfect, now Amanda you come right over here next to Melissa, ” the photographer directed.
Melissa groaned.
“What?” he asked.
“Is it me? Am I too tall?” I asked.
Melissa chuckled ruefully, “Yeah, kind of.”
“Want me to take off my shoes?” I asked. I was kind of kidding.
“That’s ok. They won’t show,” the photographer said.
“Really? I mean seriously, it’s bad enough I’m in a t-shirt. Promise my feet won’t show?” I asked as Melissa threw out an, “It’ll be fine,” and the photographer said, “No one’ll ever know. It’ll be our secret. Promise.” I kicked them across the room, well out of view.
So tell me, is “sucker” emblazoned on the barefoot chick’s forehead?
