Wife 22

I don’t need a mantra. I have a mantra that I’ve been repeating obsessively for the past twenty-four hours. You’ve done nothing to offend me-quite the opposite, actually-that’s the problem.

“Alice, try to stop fidgeting,” the teacher whispers, stopping at my mat. I close my eyes. She squats and puts the palm of her hand on my solar plexus.

That’s the problem? Let’s tease that sentence apart for the fiftieth time. The problem is I don’t offend him. The problem is he wishes I would offend him. The problem is he wishes I would offend him because I’m doing the opposite. What’s the opposite of offend? To please. To give pleasure. The problem is I’m giving him pleasure. Too much pleasure. Oh, God.

“Breathe, Alice, breathe.”

My eyes snap open.

I’m in the dressing room, changing out of my yoga gear, when a naked woman walks by on her way to the shower. Nudity is not something I’m comfortable with. Of course I might feel differently if I had a fabulous body like this woman, perfectly groomed, manicured, pedicured, her pubic hair completely waxed off.

I stare for a moment-I can’t help it; I’ve never seen an actual live woman with a Brazilian. Is this what men like? Is this what gives them pleasure?

After my yoga class, Nedra and I meet for lunch. Just as she’s biting into her burrito I ask, “Do you wax down there?”

Nedra puts down her burrito and sighs.

“Of course it’s fine if you don’t. There might be different pubic-hair rules for lesbians.”

“I wax, darling,” says Nedra.

“How much?”

“All of it.”

“You’ve been getting Brazilians?” I cry. “And you didn’t tell me I should be getting them, too?”

“Technically, it’s called a Hollywood if you take everything off. You want the number of the place I go? Ask for Hilary. She’s the best and she’s quick; it barely hurts. Now can we talk about something else? Perhaps a topic more suitable for daylight?”

“Okay. What’s an antonym for ‘offend’?”

Nedra stares at me suspiciously. “Have you lost weight?”

“Why, do I look like I have?”

“Your face is skinnier. Are you working out?”

“I’m working too much to work out. School ends in two weeks. I’m juggling six plays.”

“Well, you look good,” says Nedra. “And you’re not wearing fleece for once. I can actually see your body. I like the tank-and-cardi look. It suits you. You have a very sexy neck, Alice.”

“A sexy neck?” I think of Researcher 101. I think I should show Nedra Lucy Pevensie’s Facebook page.

Nedra picks up her cellphone. “I’m going to call Hilary and make you an appointment because I know you’ll never do it.” She punches in the number, has a quick conversation, utters a thank you darling, and snaps her cell shut. “She had a cancellation. She can take you in an hour. My treat.”

“Nedra said you’re quick. And painless.”

“I do my best. Have you considered vajazzling? Or vatooing?” asks Hilary.

Does this woman really expect me to have a conversation about vajazzes when she’s about to apply hot wax to my vatoo?

Hilary stirs the pot of wax with a tongue depressor. “Let’s take a look, shall we?” She lifts the paper thong and tsks. “Someone hasn’t been keeping up with their waxing.”

“It’s been a while,” I say.

“How long?”

“Forty-four years.”

Hilary’s eyes widen. “Wow-a waxing virgin. We don’t get too many of those. Never even had the bikini line waxed?”

“Well, I keep things tidy. I shave.”

“Doesn’t count. Why don’t we start with a Brazilian with a two-inch strip? More of an American, really. We’ll ease you into it.”

“No-I want a Hollywood. That’s what everybody does these days, right?”

“A lot of younger people do. But most women your age tend to just neaten things up.”

“I want it all off,” I say.

“All right,” says Hilary.

She folds one side of the paper thong back and I close my eyes. The hot wax drips onto my skin. I tense up, expecting it to burn, but surprisingly it feels good. This isn’t so bad. Hilary lays down a cloth strip and smooths it.

“I’m going to count to three,” she says.

I grab her wrist, suddenly panicked. “I’m not ready.”

She looks at me calmly.

“No, please. Okay, wait, wait, just give me a sec-I’m almost ready.”

“One,” she says and rips off the strip.

I shriek. “What happened to ‘two’?”

“It’s better to be surprised,” she says, surveying the area, frowning. “You don’t use retinol products, do you?”

On my vatoo, no.

“The first time is the worst. Each time it will be easier.” She hands me a mirror.

“I don’t need to see,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. “Just finish it.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Do you want to take a break?”

“No,” I practically shout.

She raises her eyebrows at me.

“I’m sorry. What I meant to say is please keep going before I lose my nerve, and I’ll do my very best not to cry.”

“It’s all right if you do. You wouldn’t be the first,” she says.

I waltz out of Hilary’s shop with a half-off coupon for my next wax and an aftercare admonition (DO NOT take any Dead Sea salt baths for at least twenty-four hours-no problem there, Hilary) and a sexy little secret that nobody knows but me. I smile at other women I pass on the street, feeling like I’ve joined the tribe of impeccably groomed women, women who are taking care of business down there. I feel so lighthearted (and relieved I don’t have to endure that pain for another month) that I stop at Green Light Books to look at magazines, something I rarely do because I’m always in such a hurry.

Michelle Williams is on the cover of Vogue. Apparently, according to Vogue, MiWi is the new it-girl. There’s a two-page spread of MiWi’s Night on the Town in Austin. Here’s the lovely MiWi taking a dip at Barton Springs. Here she is sitting at the bar at Fado, drinking a Green Flash Le Freak. And here she is an hour later trying on the skinniest, hottest jeans at Luxe Apothetique. Wasn’t Michelle the it-girl two years ago, too? Do they recycle it-girls? That doesn’t seem fair. Shouldn’t they give other it- girls like me a chance?

IT-GIRL ALICE BUCKLE’S NIGHT OUT FROM ANSWERING THE PHONE TO PARKING, TO SINGING HORRIBLY OFF KEY IN THE CAR. FOUR HOURS WITH ALBU ON A FRIDAY NIGHT