My mom grins and shakes her head. “Okay, you know I fully support your booksta-pictures but—”
“It’s bookstagram,” Jen says. “Bookstagram. You should know that since it’s one of the keys to Kara’s livelihood.”
“Whatever it’s called,” my mom groans. “You should be focusing on your own book. The longer you wait, the more difficult it’s going to be. You don’t want to take too long and then get stuck in a funk.”
Too late.
“I know, Mom, and for the record, I did start my next novel.”Thank goodness.“It’s in the very early stages, though, so I’m still figuring it out.”
“That’s exciting! Do you have pages for me to read?”
My mom can be my toughest critic but she’s also my biggest fan. Even though reading on the computer hurts her eyes, she still read my first manuscript after every edit I went through, which ended up being about ninety-seven drafts. I never would have worked so hard to get published if she wasn’t there encouraging and pushing me along the way.
“It’s not quite ready yet, but hopefully soon.”
“Tell us about Cristina’s party,” Jen says, rubbing a hand over her stomach. “I need to live through you so I can forget my own miserable existence.”
“I had a good time. The party was nice and I wore this new off-the-shoulder dress.”
“I thought you were going to wear the dress I got you?”
My mom looks at me expectantly and I adjust my seat, crossing a leg over my knee as I close myself off a little. She’s always been addicted to buying Jen and me clothes. Problem is, she and I have had very different styles since I became a preteen and fell madly, deeply in love with a vintage sweater my aunt bought as a gift. It felt like I was donning a socially appropriate wearable quilt and there was no turning back for me after that.
“I did try on the dress you bought but you know I don’t do sleeveless.”
“You would feel amazing wearing whatever you wanted if you carried it off with confidence,” she says easily. “Living like I do, I feel empowered every day. We should make a vision board together!”
Here we go.
Ever since my mom became a fitness fanatic, she’s been continually trying to recruit Jen and me. I’ve tried to humor her. I part walked, part jogged a 5K with her last year and we’ve gone to the gym together plenty of times—I opt to use her guest pass but she would prefer that I sign up for a lifetime commitment in blood. I don’t begrudge her for loving to exercise, but I know she begrudges me for not feeling the same.
All my life, I was never overweight but I was also never underweight. Where other girls were toned and trim, I was softer and curvy. When my friends went to dance class, I played tennis and softball. I came out of the womb with my upper thighs touching and they’ve refused to be parted ever since.
I’m generally happy with my body, but my upper arms are my no-go zones. Short sleeved/off-the-shoulder shirts and dresses are my jam and I’ve done very well for myself as-is.
“Thank you for the suggestion, but the sleeveless life just isn’t for me. I’m all for making a vision board, though.”
“Me, too,” Jen chimes in. “First things I’m putting on my board are a Target shopping spree and an English country house. Or at the very least, I want to manifest a world where I can eat grilled cheeses and watch period dramas all day long.”
“Same,” I agree. “Those are actually sensational choices.”
“You girls are missing the point,” my mom says. “How is Kara going to find someone if she’s not her happiest and most confident self?”
My eyes shift to the floor as I try to remind myself that she means well. That she’s somehow blind to the fact that her pep talks feel more like sharp digs I’m never able to dodge.
“I’m perfectly happy, Mom. And I don’t think I’m destined for a nunnery just because I don’t love my arms.” My answer sounds rehearsed because it is. We’ve had this conversation a billion times.
“All I’m saying is that if you invest time and energy into healthy self-care, it will do wonders for your self-esteem.”
“But what makes you feel good about yourself isn’t necessarily the same for me,” I argue. “You may not believe it, but every time I read a new book while wearing pajamas, I physically get a runner’s high.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I know my truth.”
My mom sits back with a sigh. “I realize that this is probably a sensitive topic, but I still don’t understand why you and Mark broke up. He had a great job and he was nice.”
Of course, it’s easier to rank a man’s profession before his personality when you’re not the one marrying him.
