To say I was dreading the dinner party would be the understatement of the century.
I knew she’d be there. She always took credit for hooking up my parents. But, seriously? Everyone at church did.
She’d be there with her browned teeth, shrieking every comment through her browned teeth.
And my dad’d make me talk to her. And curtness was lost on her. And I really can’t be mean, anyway. It’s just not my nature.
So, I threw on my most modest jean pants, loudly pink tennis shoes, and old t-shirt from the Methodist church I used to attend.
This combination would give them something to talk about. “What happened to the pastor’s daughter?” they’d ask. “Did she backslide?” “Did you see her Methodist tshirt?” “She was wearing pants!”
That’d give them something to talk about.
And I’d let them know a little secret: I’m a pastor’s wife.
There. I had a plan.
Now, to knock on the door.