I was sitting in the front seat of my Aunt Merry’s big blue Cadillac, freezing. It was April in Mississippi, already in the high 80s, but that luxury automobile had killer air conditioning. I sat silently, odd for me even at age 12, watching the goosebumps rise on my arms. The knot in my stomach was growing exponentially. By the time we got to her house, it would weigh a hundred pounds and I would be unable to rise from the blue leather seat.

“You’re quiet,” said Aunt Merry. She phrased it as an observation, not as a concern.

“I’m just sleepy,” I said, watching the pastures race past the window. She always took off like a rocket when we turned onto Military Road, because encountering another car was such a rarity. Maybe the occasional deer, but she had one of those repellant whistles mounted to the hood of her car to keep them from running into the road and messing up her Cadillac.

Preppy offered our guest room to a coworker in town from Miami, meaning there’s even more conversations than usual around our house involving phrases like “loss prevention” and “opportunities.”

“Opportunities” in particular is a major buzz word at his company. It’s a euphemism for “total fail,” but they’re savvy enough not to say that. But I’ve been with my husband long enough to translate what he means when he says there’s “opportunities” in our kitchen sink.

I’ve been spending my evenings playing Auntie Mame, which also sounds like a euphemism, but is in this case literally what I’m up to. As proud as I am of my career, I do hate it when I’m dressed like a lady the first time I meet one of his coworkers. But some things just cannot be helped.