Oh, Sunday

Today is Sunday, which means church for me. And church means that one cute usher who always makes eyes at me. I secretly (ok, not even secretly) like it. Is that bad? I don't think so; as long as my mother, who sits next to me singing hymns off key, doesn't notice. And as long as Fathers Rob and Cline don't notice. And as long as the stern, rich old ladies who disapprove of the tight pencil skirt I wore today don't notice.
The Episcopal Church is full of rich people, disapproving people, and old people. My parents fall under all three of those categories. They are 100% WASP, through and through.
And I like to think that I'm a product of this ultra-conservative, ultra-classy, ultra-rich environment that I've been born into. At least then I know that the problems I hide so well from the real world aren't all my fault. After church we go to the club for Sunday brunch. How much WASPier can we get?
A family sits at the table across from us, a cute older guy, his fiance, and his grandparents. They have a loud discussion about his grandparents' yacht and I can't help but be jealous. Not just because of the yacht part, but because of the family part. My family is scattered across the state, I'm an only child, and my father never joins us for church.
Half the time, dad isn't even home on the weekends. He was raised working on his parents' sprawling Hereford ranch and, as a consequence, enjoys working on our ranch more than spending time on the weekends with us. He never goes to church with us, and leaves me to have stilted conversations with my mom in the club house over artfully arranged dishes and freezing glasses of lemon water.
I had a salad, no dressing, with raisins and two slices of tomatoes. My mom had soup, salad, and a fried shrimp dish with rice pilaf and green beans. It was disgusting, but I sat and watched her eat it, and then I encouraged her to bag up the leftovers, pretending I would eat some at home.
There's only a five hour window that I allow myself to eat in, starting with a high protein low-cal breakfast, followed by maybe one meal that has to be fewer than my 210 calorie breakfast. That window is up, but I just might have to go sneak into the kitchen and throw a few shrimp down the disposal so it looks like I've been snacking.

...

The view from the window of the club is beautiful. The dining room hangs over a bayou that snakes through a forest populated by tall sicamores and wide reaching oaks. The sun makes the trees' leaves seem so much brighter. To the right are two glimmering pools, crawling with people. The sun glimmers off the water there, too.
We drive home passing tall mansion lined up along the roads, surrounded by even taller trees.
Today I couldn't help but ask myself this question: Being surrounded by such beauty and such perfection, can I be blamed for wanting to match or surpass my surroundings?