KARA: My cell phone rings on the way to work. “I have good news!” my mom exclaims in a positively buoyant tone. “I talked to the invitation lady. Everything’s fine!”
My invitations, scheduled to be finished weeks ago, have yet to arrive. I’m not particularly upset about this. Even though my invitations were a disturbing shade of mold green when I last saw them, as opposed to silvery sage, I feel confident that everything will turn out OK. But my mother’s a different story.
“Great!” I answer, scrambling to the subway, encumbered by a Starbucks eggwich. “What happened?”
“I told her that this whole invitation business is making you very nervous and upset,” my mom says, “and that because of the stress, you had to be rushed to the hospital.” Silence. “It’s not a lie!”
No, it’s not a lie. I was in fact rushed by my devoted fiancé, Brian, to the emergency room last Friday night because I suffered a massive panic attack–brought on, no doubt, by the four cups of bottomless sweetened iced coffee and three diet Cokes I’d consumed earlier that day. Not because of my leisure-suit green invitations.
But now my invitation lady thinks I’m unstable. I explode at my mother: “She’s going to think I’m crazy!” I’m now standing in the middle of the sidewalk with commuters stopping to look and listen. I try to keep my voice down: “How can I talk to her with any sort of authority when she thinks I’m calling in my corrections from a pay phone at the insane asylum?…I can’t–can-not–believe you did this!”