Apron Anxiety by Alyssa Shelasky Page B

weekdays.
    For one weekend, we make plans to hit a hot spot that’s getting glowing reviews for its elegant Italian entrees and ultrachic interior, and it’s only a ten-minute drive away. The best part about these date nights is that I have an excuse to dress up for him. It feels like Chef sees me only in pajamas during the week. So, as he finishes watching an episode of
Planet Earth—
the only TV show we’re not equally addicted to—I surface from the bedroom in a short, flowy miniskirt, smoky eyes, and a spritz of Stella McCartney perfume. It’s hard to get him out of my bra and into the car after that, but I force him to behave. He drives with one hand and tickles my thigh with another.
    The second we walk into the restaurant, I get a really bad vibe, which is strange because I’m not a restaurant snob. Theplace looks like a hospital cafeteria, and there’s a faint smell of fish. Chef nods in agreement, making a funny expression with his gingery eyebrows. But it’s late and we’re hungry, and quite frankly, we don’t know D.C. well enough to escape to some “old faithful” yet.
    So we sit down graciously and I try to wipe the sour look off my face. But I’m let down. Our date nights are precious to me and this place is a bummer. I can’t seem to laugh it off or let it go. The music in my head has come to a screech.
This is what Washington thinks is cool? Really?
    When our waiter comes to our table, he reaches over me to pour some water and I get a whiff of the world’s most pungent body odor. The stinky pit really sets me off. More than anything, it reeks of the disappointment I’m finding
everywhere
I turn in this town. There’s not enough Right Guard in the world to fix that.
    And then I start to hyperventilate; I am derailed. Chef looks really frightened. I’ve started to bawl my eyes out. He’s never seen me lose my cool like this … and over B.O.? He apologizes to the staff, cancels our order, and delicately takes me outside.
    By now, I am laughing and crying in unison. I can’t believe what a scene I made. Chef is laughing, too, but he’s concerned. What is going on with me? We walk back to the car and he insists that I tell him what provoked my outburst. “It just felt so wrong in there,” I say, weeping. “That place pushed me over the edge.”
    As we keep talking, I admit to him, and to myself, that lately I’ve been feeling a little panicky. It’s making me kind of cuckoo being home alone all day, and that as hard as I try, I can’t seem to catch a wave
anywhere
in D.C.
    Until this stage in my life, I’ve always sided with Confucius on the “Wherever you go, there you are” philosophy. But
nothing
is clicking in Washington. We recently went to a White House party at a rooftop bar where everyone wore panty hose, no one voted on
Idol
, and I was impossibly invisible. Standing in line at J. Crew, I made a friend who worked for a senator, but the second she found out I had once written for
People
, she demanded I lose her number, stating, “You can’t be in politics without being paranoid.” Earlier this week, Chef and I went on a midnight stroll, hoping to get a late-night snack, a fresh pastry, or swirly soft-serve, only to come home with hot dogs and Snapple from 7-Eleven. “Wherever you go, you miss New York” is more like it.
    “Nothing feels right in this city,” I say, my wet face nuzzled into his chest. “The people aren’t my type, and I’m not theirs. I mean, look at tonight, this entire city is raving over this ugly, impotent restaurant. This place wouldn’t last a second in New York,” I say, fully upset again, knowing my frustration is not
really
about the bleak restaurant, and that I’m sounding like a real brat.
    “Baby, calm down. Please. You’re still adjusting …”
    “No. Fuck adjusting. A paper clip has more heart than that place.” I pout, pointing to the restaurant.
    “You’re right, Lys, it sucked in there,” Chef says. “But what’s this