Didn’t I Feed You Yesterday?

circus of mine, I deserve a vice. When Peter falls asleep with a piece in his mouth, I will dutifully cut it out of his hair in the morning and thank God every day for my twelve-piece blister pack of heaven.

I WAS RECENTLY HIRED BY THE PHARMACEUTICAL GIANT Glaxo-SmithKline to design dresses for two women who had won a competition to lose weight by using a new diet pill the company had developed. I took part in the presentation of the dresses and a press conference. When the event was over, the executives invited me to dinner. I spent the meal buttonholing executives about the diet-pill potential of their other product, Nicorette.

“Oh, did you start chewing it to stop smoking?” one suit asked.

“No way,” I said. “Smoking’s for losers. I chew because nicotine keeps me sane.” I went on to regale them with my thoughts on the product, about how when I put a piece of that gum in my mouth, and I feel that spicy taste running down my throat, a feeling of calm comes over me and all is right with the world. The fact that my mouth is busy chewing gum and not rabbiting popcorn or nibbling Triscuits is an added benefit in that it cuts some calories out of my day. I was willing to admit that I am so addicted that I get nervous when my supplies are low, so I have hidden gum all over the house and in random purses for emergency situations. I even have a friend who “holds” a blister pack for me, she is so worried about my mental state should I find myself without a fix.

“Really,” I said, “I love it so much, I act like a pusher, constantly offering it to other people.” By this time, I noticed that a few of the suits had left the table and the ones who remained were eyeing me skeptically, but with a small glint in their eyes. I have been waiting for the spokesmodel call ever since, and believe me, if you are out there, Mr. Nicotine Suit, I am your girl.

ANOTHER WAY I TRY TO CONTAIN MY BUTT IS BY RUNNING. IF I TRY TO tell you that I exercise for my health, don’t believe me.

“Why don’t you just join the YMCA?” Peter asked me one night as I peeled yet another layer of Lycra off my body.

“Old people go to the Y,” I shot back.

“They have an indoor running track,” he said.

Well, it was love at first sight. If I have to exercise, I would rather not suffer. Climate control is the way to go. I don’t have to worry about freezing winter or steaming summer days. The track is small—an eighth of a mile— so I tend to feel like Hamster in his wheel, but after about fifteen minutes I zone into my endorphin high and don’t really notice. I can spend a full hour just going in circles, passing the same old guy with his walker at least fifty times. If that doesn’t make you feel good about yourself, what will? Sometimes, just to unwind, I will sit myself on an exercise bike alongside a woman with an oxygen mask, her personal video screen tuned to The Price Is Right. She’s my inspiration. She’s always there on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I feel that she would be discouraged if I didn’t show up as well.

Of course, dieting is partly an attempt to retain or regain a youthful appearance, which is why the majority of liposuction is performed on women over forty. One day as I was viewing my backside for the billionth time in the mirror, I flirted with the idea. I pictured my body facedown on an operating table. Naked. Concentric circles marking zones of imperfection drawn over my butt and thighs. Anonymous men in surgical gear discussing whether to have sushi or subs for lunch. Nurses quietly judging me for being so damn shallow, but happy to get a paycheck on the fifteenth and thirtieth of every month. A long rod slides violently in and out of my flesh, pulling lumps of bright yellow fat into a tube and then a plastic Ziploc bag, to be deposited God knows where on the planet. Then there are the weeks of healing, oozing sores connected to yet more tubes that you have to measure and empty every few hours. Gack.

I am not sure who the woman is who would opt for this over a twenty-five-dollar visit to the lingerie department at Macy’s, but it’s certainly not me. The idea of having my ass removed to a landfill is just too much to bear. I’m certainly not against cosmetic augmentation, as it is in keeping with my theory that you can make yourself feel good by making yourself look great. I dye my hair; I glue eyelashes onto my lids. I even once had Botox injected into my forehead. For this I went to a fancy uptown New York dermatologist frequented by many of my good friends. They all look terrific, I thought; this might be a good step. In the waiting room, reading Town & Country magazine, I began to take quick glances at the assorted women there. I began to get scared. Most of the women had an upper lip so filled with collagen that they could have half kissed their own noses just by exhaling. Many foreheads were broad, expansive, smooth, immobile. I cocked an eyebrow just to feel my own scalp move in reassurance. A few women had a tell-tale puffiness around the eyes, an attempt at filling crow’s feet quite apparent. Was it possible these women didn’t know that they didn’t look younger? That what they had accomplished with these various procedures was turning themselves into two-bit caricatures of their mothers?

“Don’t make me look like those women in the waiting room” was the first thing I said to the doctor.

“Those women are junkies. They go from doctor to doctor. It’s their own fault they look that way,” he assured me.

Well, the Botox looked fine, and for a few weeks I felt a tiny bit younger, maybe forty-three, but I never went back.

Then one night I was watching a Bravo reality show, one of the Real Housewives iterations. There was an attractive woman, divorced with two children, working hard to support her family. She wasn’t just kicking back and relaxing on the proceeds of her alimony. By the third season, this character hooked up with a rich guy, and her looks totally went downhill. She obviously now had access to money for procedures, and also had a newfound fear of the rich guy preferring a younger version of herself ere too long. What was once a pretty face morphed into a monster of alarming proportions. Her lips puffed up, her forehead grew, and she must have had cheek implants—how else could you explain the sudden resemblance to Joan Rivers? Before she had money, she looked great. No, she didn’t look twenty, but she rocked her forties.

I intentionally lie about my age. I actually tell people I am older than I am.

“Fifty! Wow, you look great for fifty!” I may not be able to look like a girl in my thirties, but I can kick some fifties ass.

I’ve decided to forgo injections and fillers because I fully intend to become a crazy old lady who wears too much makeup, piles on all of her jewelry at once, and prances around the house in an enormous wig and a feather boa, like a redheaded Carol Channing. By the time I am wizened and wrinkled, my gay icon status will be improved upon by my greatest gift to my fans: another version of me to emulate. Young Laura Bennett, Project Runway Laura Bennett, Pregnant Laura Bennett, Crazy Old Lady Laura Bennett—the character lines will give young cross-dressers so much more range to play with. And they, better than most, know a thing or two about the beauty of shape shifters.

For the moment, I don’t fear aging at all. I will proudly walk into my fifties with my ass held high, thanks to my power panties.

DAIRY AIR

^{Located next to a stinky dairy farm, we call this place Dairy Air (pronounced derriere).}

I HATE IT WHEN MY KIDS WANT TO HELP. I KNOW HELPING is how they learn, but I just don’t have the time or patience. Any task my kids assist with takes twice as long and yields four times the mess. I remember from my childhood a Duncan Hines commercial where the pretty apron-wearing mother prepares the cake mix with her three smiling children in a sparkling white kitchen, but in my house it never goes down that way. When Pierson insists on stirring the pancake batter, it ends up lumpy and all over the counter. If Truman wants to deliver a morning cup of coffee to his father, there is invariably a trail of joe leading from the kitchen to Peter’s morning perch at the computer. Everything is just so much cleaner if I do it myself.

Driving home from the country the other night, we stopped for gas an hour outside of Manhattan, as is our habit. The best way to enjoy living in New York City is to run screaming from it every Friday. The downside is the effort required to transport five boys three hours in one car without incident. Necessity demands a midway break. We stop to fill the tank and let anyone who is still awake buy junk food from the gas station mini-mart. Pumping gas