My Squirrel Days by Ellie Kemper

Author:Ellie Kemper
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scribner

You can see that not only was the concept of weekends nonexistent in my childhood view of the world, but that I accomplished more before Conway School’s start time than most adults do in a day. The point is, I like order and plans, I was obsessed with making Carrie’s Christmas List (as her literate older sister, I was this toddler’s eyes and ears), and “Relith” was code for “Religion” (my parish School of Religion class on Monday evenings).

Back at brunch, I took a deep breath. I knew that you catch more flies with honey, and so I was ready to be a one-woman army of bees.

I caught the eye of our original waiter, the one who didn’t smell like vanilla cake, and waved. He walked over to our table, and I laid my hand gently on his arm. “Is everything okay?” he asked. I guess he wasn’t used to customers touching him—and I quickly realized that was because it was totally inappropriate. I removed my hand. “Everything’s okay,” I said softly, showing him the bowl. “I think there are supposed to be lentils with this quinoa, but there’s only quinoa.”

Well trained, the waiter expressed concern and announced that he would go get his manager. This was not part of the plan; I noticed people beginning to look over. My initial outburst with Michael could have been described as “stormy,” but it had also been reasonably quiet. Now, the waiter’s loud voice was getting the attention of my fellow patrons, and I imagined what they must be thinking. “Mom, today I saw a grown woman cry because she didn’t get what she ordered at brunch,” one of them would recount on an afternoon phone call home. “You’ve got to move out of New York City,” this wise mom would reply.

The only thing more embarrassing than losing your temper is losing your temper for all the world to see. Our waiter’s pledge to get the manager combined with my rapidly dropping blood sugar was laying all the necessary groundwork for what you might call a scene. As though I were listening to a C+C Music Factory album from 1990, beads of perspiration started dripping from my armpits, trickling down my back, and soaking through my high-rise Hanes. I clung to the notion that I could still make honey—remember how earlier I called myself a one-woman army of bees?—and be nice. But the intestinal gas now forming as a result of having coffee on an empty stomach suggested otherwise. I was beginning to lose control. My legs trembled and I felt light-headed. I looked at Michael, helpless. “What is happening to me?” I whispered, my mouth dry and my eyes large. “Michael? Things are about to get ugly.” My future husband held my gaze. “Baby, I am here for you,” he declared. “But I do want to wash my hands before I eat.” Michael then left for the bathroom. I tried some light breathing exercises, but I knew I had no idea what I was doing.

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