Today I woke up at 10, went downstairs at 11:15, had some breakfast, and sat down on the couch in the living room to read A Game of Thrones. My dad told me the family is going over to the mall for coffee, and asked me if I’d like to come. Having nothing better to do, I accepted and went upstairs to change.
However, I never seem to learn just how terribly these family outings always go. I always have a terrible time. It’s irritating how different and unlike my family I feel. They are in their 40s and 50s raising three kids, all under the age of 10, and there I am, the teenager born in a different decade than anybody else, with a mindset different from everybody else’s.
We park the car and I notice several taxis from the same company parked outside. Perhaps this is their new company headquarters? Thinking we’d go to the coffee house on the first floor of the mall, we instead go up the escalator to the food court, which is apparently where my parents like to get coffee. From a booth. In styrofoam cups. Already irritated and no longer in the mood for “coffee,” I sit down on a table and wait while my parents get their coffee and a couple of cupcakes for the kids. After finishing off the food, everybody gets off the table. I aks where we’re going, and my dad says “I don’t know, we’ll just walk around the mall.” What a fun activity! My bad-mood-radiating aura gets to him, and dad gets pretty mad at me. He says I always act this way every time I come out with the rest of the family, then he asks if I act the same around my friends too. I tell him no, I only act this way around you. He then retorts that maybe I should just not come out with the family anymore. Shocked, I throw out a “Fine then!” and ask for the house keys. I wait while my mom takes out the remote for the garage and the keys to the kitchen door from her key rings. Snatching them both, I collect my things and stalk off, down the escalator, out the mall entrance, and towards the taxis I’d seen in the parking lot earlier. I give the man directions to the house and off we go. On the way home, I do realize how selfish and spoiled my behaviour towards the coffee was. I expect too much when I really shouldn’t, and I take everything for granted.
I get home, walk up the driveway and wait for the garage door to open. There is a light rain out. I get inside and take out the keys to the kitchen door. Jamming it into the keyhole, I try to turn it again and again, to no avail. After about 10 minutes of this, I walk out the garage and go over to the house’s backdoor, also leading into the kitchen. Navigating my way up the patio staircase, which is covered in ice and snow, I finally make it to the door, but the key does not seem to belong to that door either. I go back to the garage.
A few minutes pass, the key won’t open the lock. At this point, I start crying out of frustration. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s my friend. I answer the call and tell her what’s going on. She asks me about an essay that’s due next week. How am I supposed to explain the essay? “Dude. I’m STUCK OUTSIDE MY HOUSE.” I put the phone back in my pocket, go back to the key. Wipe at my eyes. Black mascara smudges on the back of my palm. Great. The phone vibrates once more. Speak (or think, in my case, I wasn’t really speaking to anyone right then) of the devil, it’s my dad calling. The family is in the supermarket. My dad asks that they found some lettuce, and whether or not I want some. “Yeah, sure.”
Coldest “bye” I’ve gotten from him in months!
By now I’ve been standing at the door for 20 minutes, trying to get it open. I didn’t want to tell my dad I’ve been stuck out in the garage for the whole time. After another few minutes of fruitless trying, I cave and call my dad. “The door won’t open.” I whine into the phone.
“Try turning it.”
“It won’t turn.”
“Turn it to the left while holding onto the door handle.”
“That’s what I’ve been doing this whole time!” Proving my point, I hold my phone between my jaw and shoulder and grab the door handle and the key, trying to turn it. Again, it won’t budge. “It’s not working.”
“Well we’re at the supermarket now, we’ll be leaving in about 10 minutes. Maybe you can just wait?” Wait? For him to come and see me there, dealing with the aftermath of my hissy fit? No thanks. I hang up.
With a wounded pride and low morale and mascara goop streaming down my face, I go back to trying to open the door. By accident, my hand pulls the key out of the keyhole just a tiny bit, and the key turns. Quite easily. I turn it counterclockwise. Click. Did I just double-lock it? I turn the key clockwise. Once. Twice. Pull down on the door handle. Just like that, the door to the kitchen opens. I go inside in disbelief. I’d been outside for so long, walking all around the outside of the building, and this is all I had to do to get the door to open.
I do the only logical thing left to do. I start crying. Hard.
I wipe my feet on the mat, crying. I take off my coat and throw it on the couch, crying. I walk up the stairs to my room, crying. I take off my jeans and my “outside” clothes, crying. Then I lay down on my bed and cry into my thick winter blanket. I cry because I’m mad. I’m not sure why I’m mad, but I am.
After a few minutes of this, I get off the bed. I go into the bathroom and wash my face. I wash off the light lipstick I bothered to put on. I wash off the last bits of the mascara goop from my eyelashes and soap off the streaks on my face and backs of my palms. I go into my room and put on a pair of sweats and an old T-shirt, put on my flipflops, and go downstairs.
And I’ve been writing this post since then. It’s about 2:30 PM right now. I have a feeling (just a teeny bit of a hunch) that this day isn’t going to be too great.
I hope you all have a better Sunday than mine.