And all I can say is: “I really like your foundation. Very dewy.”
In four minutes, I’ll be a fiancé or a cautionary tale. She emerges. One eyebrow raised. Lipstick perfectly applied — the color of authority.
But here I am. Sweating through my nice shirt. The ring box in my jacket pocket feels like a live grenade. I rehearsed this. In the car. In the shower. At 3 a.m. staring at the ceiling. 10 Minutes While My Girlfriend-s Mother Is Doin...
It sounds like you're referencing a known short story or creative writing piece — likely the one by titled "10 Minutes While My Girlfriend's Mother Is Doing Her Makeup (A Monologue for a Man About to Get Married)." It's a humorous, anxiety-ridden internal monologue from a man waiting to ask for his girlfriend's mother's blessing.
She sits down across from me.
I open my mouth.
Ten minutes. That’s how long she said. “Just give me ten minutes to finish my face.” And all I can say is: “I really like your foundation
But what if she asks me my five-year plan? What if she says, “You’re not good enough”? What if she laughs? What if she just keeps doing her eyeliner in terrifying silence?