Today's Blogtember Prompt: Creative writing day: write a (very short) fictional story that starts with this sentence: "To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century."
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| image via Unsplash.
To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century.
I woke up that morning dreading the entire day that lay ahead of me. School. Work. Dinner. Dinner with those people. I pulled myself out of bed, pulled the covers back over my pillow and groggily walked towards the bathroom. I turned the radio on and hummed along to Adele and her wise, wise lyrics. I slipped into the shower, letting the hot water rain down over me. The smell of warm vanilla covered my body and as I shut the water off, the steam trailed not too far behind.
I looked into the mirror, towel wrapped around my torso and stared at my reflection. My hair dangled over my shoulders, my eyes were bagless (for once), and my cheeks were rosy from the steamy shower.
School I could handle. Another work day behind the counter making Five Dollar Footlong's I could handle. A dinner, though? Well, that was going to be another story in and of itself.
I tweezed a few stray eyebrow hairs, brushed the morning breath out of my mouth, pulled my hair up in a messy topknot, and topped it all off with a little mascara and lip gloss. I was running late, taking too long starring into the mirror wondering how I could get myself out of tonight's plans. What was that crazy disease people always used as an excuse to get out of plans? A common cold wasn't going to cut it this time around...
Even though I didn't want to, I knew that I had to go. I knew that my mother wanted, no insisted that I go. My father, couldn't care less but there was no way he would go against my mother's final words: "You have got to go. Make a good impression, use the correct forks, and whatever you do, do not bring up his name."
She had already texted me the outfit she hoped I would wear, a little black dress from a cocktail party three years ago, a string of pearls from my grandmother, and glossy patent leather red heels. A simple, classy outfit, she typed into her phone. Now all you need is a little houndstooth coat, dear.
I rolled my eyes at that thought. No way was that going to happen. Afterall, the phrase like mother, like daughter was the last thing on my to-do list.
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