Page 2 of The Killer You Know

After all, we’re all in this together, right?

Jobs, husbands, aging faces, aging parents, know-it-all siblings who continue to make our lives questionably miserable, and don’t get me started on perimenopause.

Speaking of aging, you’ll never guess what dropped in the mail two weeks ago—an invitation to my twenty-year high school reunion!

Twenty?

Am I ancient or what?

You know what this means—I’m going to need a dress. Right after I kill my addiction to carbs. And I can’t start that until at least tomorrow because I happen to have a chocolate-filled croissant waiting for me in the kitchen.

While I go make quick work of that, drop into the comments and tell me what we’re supposed to wear to these things.

A little black dress? A sequined number? A custom frock with heavy beading?

I can promise you, I’m not mortgaging my house for this thing. And I am definitely not haunting a dressing room either.

Better yet, drop me a buy link to a dress you think I should wear. Bonus points if I get free shipping. You know I’m ordering this puppy online.

I post a picture of myself rolling my eyes while standing in front of my farmhouse-inspired kitchen with its rustic chandelier pendant lights and glossy marble countertops. Each design element in my home was voted on and heavily curated by my legion of adoring fans, right down to the reclaimed barn doors that line my halls.

I’m not really a fan of any of it.

Ironically, I liked the house the way it was to begin with, but that’s not relatable. Come to find out, relatable is another word for misery.

And if I’m being honest, I’ve always been miserable. Wanting what someone else has, doing whatever I have to do to get it has been my MO for as long as I can remember. I’m not above stealing, killing, and destroying. Not literally. At least not most of the time. Okay, so I specialize in two out of three.

I can’t help it. I was raised upper middle class. My parents made sure I had whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it. They created this monster. And I get the feeling that the legion of adoring fans I have will finish it.

I head into the kitchen where sadly there’s no chocolate-filled croissant waiting for me. Instead, I set out to wash the fat from last night’s burgers from the frying pan and pray my mother-in-law, Ellen, doesn’t just happen to drop by—because we happen to look like hoarders at the moment.

I’ve been meaning to do some latent spring cleaning, really just pitch everything in the trash and start over. But I can’t. I have to donate it all and document the hell out of it.

Everything is a production now. My life under a microscope.

Last week, I dragged them to the gynecologist with me and my feed exploded when I took a picture of my feet in stirrups.

Don’t forget to scoot down to the edge, they chimed in numbers.

A little lower, a little lower than that.

Scoot some more!

Oh, they had a field day with that one.

With my chapped lips, my love for a good wedge over high heels, and my bulging midsection, I’ve become an inadvertent hero to women over thirty.

As it turns out, my love of trashy romance novels spawned my very own book club. And come next week I’m going to sit down and outline the podcast I’ll be starting up in the fall.

Yes, my life is finally coming together. It’s not what I wanted it to look like, but ready or not, it’s coming in hot, bigger, and far rowdier than I could have imagined.

A soft click comes from the mudroom and I glance at the clock.

It’s not even four in the afternoon. My husband doesn’t usually make his appearance until after six-thirty.

I haven’t even showered yet.

“Daniel?” I call out, but there’s no answer.

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