This is Friday night at the country club for dinner with my Ivy League husband where we will act surprised to see all the same people we saw last Friday night at the country club for dinner. The pale blue undertones in my $500 J McLaughlin dress will complement the deep blue in his Non-Iron Milano Fit Multiplaid Sport Shirt from Brooks Brothers. We look like we planned this. It’s casual Friday.
We will reassure our friends that our lives, jobs and children are just as exceptional as they were last Friday, if not more. We will ask about the specials.
It won’t matter that I have on my period panties that the dog chewed half the crotch out of. My husband hasn’t seen under this dress since we conceived the third kid.
Besides, the sex numbing mix of birth control pills, Zoloft, Xanax, and 14 years of mutual resentment that I’m on means I don’t care.
I drink too much dry chardonnay at dinner and start gossiping about the one couple who didn’t show up. She got fat. She’s always been ugly. I have to play tennis with her in the morning. She can’t serve. My husband looks at me like “Don’t you know how to act?” And I glare back at him like, “You don’t even know me.”
Its time to go.
He drives home in silence. I stare out the window wondering how badly it would hurt if i opened my door and flung myself onto the road and what would I do next? Run? Where to?
We get home and I get in bed and post #empowering #GirlPower #Crossfit #ILoveWine memes on Instagram and post sexy lingerie #selfies on snapchat while he jerks off on facetime in the home office to that Junior League provisional who contacted him for a corporate donation back in October. This is Friday night.