Bad Vibes

Shit, what time is it? I think to myself as I rummage through cardboard boxes in my closet. It’s been two months since I moved back home with my parents and I still haven’t finished unpacking my clothes.

I check my phone. 6:15, I’m so late. I told that cute photographer that I met at a concert last weekend that I’d pick him up at 7 for drinks. That so wasn’t going to happen.

I dig through the drawers of my oak dresser in search of two matching socks. A task almost as challenging as leaving my house on time. As I rummage my hands around I brush something smooth and rubbery. What is that? I wonder. Then a mischievous smile spreads across my face as I remember.

Ol’ Blue. My waterproof silicone vibrator with 32 unique pulsing patterns.

I pull out ol’ blue and unravel the charging cable wound around it. I plug it into the outlet at the end of my bed and tuck it between the wall and my mattress. I figure I should be prepared, you know, in case the date doesn’t go well.

I return to the task at hand. I decide on a deep crimson sundress and black leather jacket. Punk yet girly, just my style. Time to put the finishing touches on. I turn to face my full-length mirror and carefully apply a matching burgundy lipstick that is so accurately titled, Vampire.

As I focus my attention on applying my lipstick with precision, my mom casually wanders into my room.

“Where you going?” she gently pries.

“Out” I reply coldly. Even though I was 24, something about moving back home had turned me into a bratty teenager again.

I shift my attention to finding my shoes. It’s 6:40, I’m frantically trying to get out the door. My mom continues to probe me with questions as I riffle through shoe boxes.

“Out where?”

“A bar.”

“Which bar”

“I’m not sure yet”

“Who are you gonna be with?”

“Just my friends”

“When will you be home?”

“I’m not sure, late”

My mom and I do this interrogation song and dance every time I leave the house. It happens so often that I basically have her interview questions memorized.

I know I’m not getting out of here on time, so I pull out my phone and quickly shoot my date a text: “Hey sorry, I’m running late. Be there in 30!”

I tuck my phone into my jacket pocket and slide my foot into a black, suede thigh-high boot. Just as I’m crouching over to slide the zipper up the back of my calf, my mom asks me one last question. One that I’m not prepared for.

“What’s this?”

I glance up from my boot and my eyes shoot wide open. I open my mouth to reply but no words come out. I sit there, paralyzed in disbelief with my jaw hanging open like a fish. Surely the scene playing out before me must be a hallucination.

My mother...holding ol’ blue. Examining it with an innocent look as if she were a child inspecting a distinctive rock she found in the sand.

I forgot about everything – my date, the time, my shoes. I’m frozen in panic as I quickly try to come up with a way to navigate myself out of this situation without my mother knowing the truth. I try to keep myself cool and collected, but I’m cornered. I feel a heat rising inside of me and I combust at the seams.

“Oh my God! You need to get out right now!” I yell hysterically. I shuffle across the room as quickly as I can with one half-zipped boot dragging behind me. I snatch ol’ blue from her hand and shove her toward the door.

“What?! I didn’t know what it was!” She cries in confusion as I slam the door behind her.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the knots in the wood of the door. I could feel my face flush warm with embarrassment. I look down at my hand clutching ol’ blue. Did she really not know what this is? For my own sanity, I convince myself she doesn’t.

My chest rises as I inhale deeply through my nose, and sinks as I let it out through my mouth. I feel my heart rate steady itself. I plug ol’ blue back into the outlet and return it to its spot behind the mattress. How the hell did she find it? I ask myself. Did she really follow a random cable to see what it was attached to?

It doesn’t matter. The damage had been done. I zip up my other boot and contemplate if I can sneak out the door without having to face my mom.

I swing a studded leather purse over my shoulder and tread down the hall, careful to avoid the creaky floorboards that I had memorized throughout my childhood.

As I approach the top of the stairs, I pause and tilt my head to listen for signs of life. I could hear my mom in the kitchen shuffling around. Probably sweeping or something. Now is my chance.

I glide down the stairs and make a swift but silent shot for the front door. I grasp the knob and diligently turn it inch by inch as if each click of the latch bolt would blow my cover. I open the door just enough to slide my body through the gap.

I was in the clear. Just a quick b-line to my Toyota and I can drive away and pretend this whole incident never happened. But something doesn’t feel right...

I shift my weight and peek my head through the door and call out, “Bye mom, I love you”.

“I love you too, be safe”. She hollers back, and I feel right again.

Two years have passed since the incident and we still haven’t mentioned ol’ blue.