Apr 2014
I was seated at the kids table. Again. I guess reaching the ripe old age of seventeen has not qualified me to explore the vast mind boggling and stimulating conversations of the adult table. That or more likely they don’t want me to hear the “curse words” that they would be surprised to know half my teachers use in class anyway and have worked their way into my own vocabulary. I just don’t understand what would put me in a league with eleven year olds. At what seemed like the three thousandth mention of a selfie and the obnoxious constant bleeping of their iPhones at Easter dinner, I had been snapped out of my angst filled stupor by my uncles squeaking folding chair.
My mother glared at me as I looked around the room. She noticed that my posture was slouched and my arms were folded across my chest. Again. Well what did she expect?
As she approached I saw she meant business but I would not let down my well-built walls of being beyond the ******* kids table. “Rebecca smile for God’s sake.” Ummm no-no thank you?
I looked her back in the eyes and asked her earnestly “Mom what am I doing here? I have nothing thing in common with these—children.” What I was really thinking was You would be slouching too if you were expected to eat chicken fingers while your cousin-only four years your senior might I add- was eating beautifully prepared lamb. But of course, that would make me seem ungrateful.
“Just TRY, Aunt Lisa will be down with dessert any second now anyway!” she said as if that was some type of reward for dealing with the ******* of being seventeen and still viewed as similar to an eleven year old.
I resumed my stupor until I heard the clicking of heels (shorter than mine might I mention, I think that should be some sort of factor when deciding seating) coming down the stairs. I thought there would be something marvelous, something creamy or cakey or some kind of fruit filled something. The excitement built as I fought against the cracking smile only dessert could bring to my lips.
There were two boxes. Two tables. One contained a beautiful cheese cake, topped with fresh fruit. The other was hostess. Chocolate cupcakes. Needless to say I don’t think you have to ask which box was dropped down onto the eleven year old end of the table. Not even thirty seconds later, the box of carcinogenic cupcakes had disappeared and all I was left with was the bitter resentment of a ***** napkin covered in chicken finger grease and empty wrappers of disappointment.
My mom then had the nerve to ask me to clean the dishes and utensils with remnants of cheese cake and stains from stirring their cappuccinos. *Gee, seventeen.
My mother glared at me as I looked around the room. She noticed that my posture was slouched and my arms were folded across my chest. Again. Well what did she expect?
As she approached I saw she meant business but I would not let down my well-built walls of being beyond the ******* kids table. “Rebecca smile for God’s sake.” Ummm no-no thank you?
I looked her back in the eyes and asked her earnestly “Mom what am I doing here? I have nothing thing in common with these—children.” What I was really thinking was You would be slouching too if you were expected to eat chicken fingers while your cousin-only four years your senior might I add- was eating beautifully prepared lamb. But of course, that would make me seem ungrateful.
“Just TRY, Aunt Lisa will be down with dessert any second now anyway!” she said as if that was some type of reward for dealing with the ******* of being seventeen and still viewed as similar to an eleven year old.
I resumed my stupor until I heard the clicking of heels (shorter than mine might I mention, I think that should be some sort of factor when deciding seating) coming down the stairs. I thought there would be something marvelous, something creamy or cakey or some kind of fruit filled something. The excitement built as I fought against the cracking smile only dessert could bring to my lips.
There were two boxes. Two tables. One contained a beautiful cheese cake, topped with fresh fruit. The other was hostess. Chocolate cupcakes. Needless to say I don’t think you have to ask which box was dropped down onto the eleven year old end of the table. Not even thirty seconds later, the box of carcinogenic cupcakes had disappeared and all I was left with was the bitter resentment of a ***** napkin covered in chicken finger grease and empty wrappers of disappointment.
My mom then had the nerve to ask me to clean the dishes and utensils with remnants of cheese cake and stains from stirring their cappuccinos. *Gee, seventeen.
