Is Your Boyfriend Ashamed of You? Here Are Signs

I am officially back in civilization. New cell phone in hand, freshly synced with the Cloud. It's almost as if I never lost the old one. I do have a tiny confession: I fished the Balenciaga bag out of the trash. It's now in my closet. I left the cell phone, it's in a landfill in Brooklyn now, but the bag, it was too beautiful to waste. I had the set security give it an once-over, they promised me it was tracking-device free.

And now that I'm back online, back with iCal, I see that tonight is THE NIGHT when I meet Carter's parents. The mysterious couple who birthed this beautiful creature. I think he's as nervous as I am. He's offered twice to reschedule, citing the weather one moment and my rough work schedule the next. Maybe he's ashamed of them. Because they are cult leaders who will ask for a sample of my blood. Or staunch vegans who will eye my leather purse with pursed lips and judgmental stares.

Or maybe he's ashamed of me. Worried that they'll hate me for … what? My education and former easy-money lifestyle? I mean, not to be snobby, but Carter's a maintenance guy. It's not like I'm not good enough for him.

Oh my god. Putting those words on paper, I just realized that I'm officially the snobby bitch that my mother raised. Let's have a moment of raw honesty for a moment. I know that the job doesn't make the man. And if we push Carter's job aside, if we take that out of the equation — he's amazing. Gorgeous. A s#xual freak of nature. Sweet. Caring. Not possessive but protective. Smart. I was on the NYU Dean's List and the man still schools me in both intellectual discussions and Words With Friends.  So I know that I should thank my lucky stars that I have landed him. And I love him. But in this super-honest conversation, let me just say that his job bothers me. I wish I could say that it's the low pay or the lack of ambition or the fact that it doesn't use his intellect at all, but I think what really bothers me is that it embarrasses me. And that bothers me more than anything. Because of what it says about me rather than what it says about him. I shouldn't care what anyone else thinks. I shouldn't care about impressing strangers. I shouldn't care when Vic makes fun of him, mocking his job as if it makes Carter less of a man. I should respect him for working hard and not care what it is he works hard at.

But I do. And I need to get that out of my head before I meet his parents. Because I'm a little terrified that my feelings will show. And that will make me look shallow to them, but I'd hate for how it would look to him. The man I love.

Hurting him … that would be the worst thing of all.

I check my reflection for the 10th time in the mirror above my sink. Smooth down my hair and check my teeth. I'm dressed casually conservative, but still cute — a Krisa jumpsuit paired with jeweled flats. I left my old jewelry in the safe and am taking a nondescript clutch, nothing to give away my old life of wealth. I look good, I think. Classy. We're eating at the stuffy Italian restaurant two blocks over, and I wish we could have made a reservation at a place nearer where they live. I don't know much about them, but I imagine that they live somewhere in Queens, probably a small rowhouse. I imagine Sunday family dinners, and a tangle of cousins and aunts and uncles who are always in your business. I do know that they're retired. They're also apparently grouchy, that was the one thing Carter said with a laugh when I pushed for more about them. I had tried to dig further last night but he'd unzipped my shorts and then … well.

There is a gentle rap on my door, and I toss some lipstick in the clutch and snap it shut. Flip off the bathroom light and head for the door.

I should have grabbed a jacket. Armor. Something to prepare me. But how could I have known? How could I have possibly prepared for what was to come?