“Well, then, if mediocrity is what you’re used to, I’dsuggest bangs to cover that forehead. But if you’re looking to break out of thesame old ho-hum, I’d say take this card”—using sleight of hand, Brandonproduces a business card from up his sleeve—“and go for Botox.”
“What is this?” I read the typeface on the card and seethat’s it’s advertising my very own dermatologist. “Dr. Grossman? He’s theancient guy who burns off my warts!”
“Now, that’s the kind of thing one shouldn’t be ‘out’about,” Brandon notes, checking my hair under the lamp. “Dr. Grossman is agenius. And look! So am I. You’re a blonde again. Let’s go wash and blow.”
Jodi passes by my table at Neiman Marcus several times. Iactually have to call her over, and even then she’s not sure whom she’s walkingup to.
“Holy Mother of God, you look gorgeous!” She leans acrossthe table to kiss me hello. “Bitch,” she adds, grabbing a clump of my hair.From her, that’s the highest level of compliment. “Who did this to you? It’s amazing.”
“This guy at the new salon at the Ritz.” I shrug.
“Brandon blew you?”
I chuckle. “You know Brandon?”
Jodi tosses her long hair dramatically. “Lauren, I knoweveryone.”
We sit back to chat. “Did you notice anything else aboutme?” I lead.
Jodi’s doe eyes, always framed in mascara, bat once ortwice as she thinks, taking me in. “No,” she concludes. “Other than your hair,you look the same.”
“It’s not my looks, dork. Try again. I’ll give you a hint.What time is it? What day of the week?”
Then it clicks. “You’re not at work!”
“Shh…I could be spotted by a mom of one of my studentsright now! We’re in dangerous territory here. That’s why I’m facing the wall.”
“You could just lie, you know, if anyone saw you. Sayyou’re at a conference, on your lunch break.”
“A conference for what? Cashmere?”
“Shakespeare, cashmere, same thing,” she dismisses. “Ugh,I’m so hot.” She peels off her sweater to reveal perfectly skinny arms and bonyclavicles that make her fashionably gaunt.
“You get those arms from Pilates?” I motion.
“No way! You know I’m too lazy to work out.” She takes asip of her water through a straw, leaving a ring of sparkly pink lip gloss onthe plastic. “It’s just the way I’m built. It’s hereditary.”
“Jodi, we’ve been over this. Just because yourgrandparents were Holocaust survivors does not mean you are meant to be thin.”
“Say what you will. My grandmother always had weightissues before the war. After? Never.”
“But…” I trail off. Typical Jodi. Her logic is so flawed.And yet it’s delivered with such confidence that I don’t even know where tobegin to untangle it and set her straight.
Jodi motions to the waitress, who nods her head and comesour way. “I’m starving.”
“The mandarin orange soufflé is great,” I suggest as Jodiopens the menu and looks it over.
“Jell-O mold? Gross.” She shivers theatrically, then looksup at the waitress. “I’ll just have a bacon cheeseburger with fries. And aCoke.”
“Diet?” The waitress asks.
“Ugh, no. Regular. And two pickles, please.”
I order the so-called gross lo-cal Jell-O mold and passthe waitress our menus.
Jodi continues our conversation. “Anyway, it’s spring andI’m bathing-suit ready. Even got waxed by my bikiniologist. Now, there’ssomeone with true talent. You should see what she can do down there.”
“I’ll just take your word for it, thanks.”
“True artistry. But that’s not why I called you forlunch.” She butters a popover, bites off a piece, and rolls her eyes skyward asshe chews. “Ah. Strawberry butter. So good.” She finishes that piece and tearsoff another. “Here’s the thing. I need your help with something.”
“Yeah, with what to wear Saturday night. You alreadymentioned that in your text.” I stare at the basket filled with warm, crustypopovers and consider what my thighs would have to say about them. Instead, Iunwrap the world’s thinnest breadstick and try to savor its crunchiness.
Jodi waves her hand in the air. “The outfit is adiversion. I need to talk to you about something serious.” She leans inclose, across the table. I lean in, too.
Jodi whispers, “I want to go back to work.”
“What!”
“Quiet! Lee can’t know that I’m thinking about this.”
“Why do we have to whisper? Is he here?”
“You know what I mean,” she says, relaxing a bit andmoving back to her popover. “He’d kill me if he knew.”
I have to process this for a second. Why would a husband notwant his wife to work? “Because he likes you at home.”
She echoes it back, nodding solemnly. “Because he likes meat home.”
Oh, the irony of my life and hers. “Unbelievable!” Istate.
“Isn’t it, though,” she adds, thinking only about herself.“I mean, I like making dinners and everything, don’t get me wrong. I’ve becomequite the little homemaker in the eight years since I stopped teaching. Andit’s been great to watch the kids grow up, finish preschool, go off tokindergarten…but before I know it Jossie will be in middle school…” She trailsoff.
I think about all that carpooling, all that tennis.“You’re bored,” I guess.
She pinches her thumb and index finger together and makesa face. “Little bit.”
All I want in this life is to be a little bit bored and alittle bit too skinny.
I dig in my pocketbook for my small notebook and quicklyscribble down a thought before it vacates my mind completely: work v.stay-at-home dilemmas, with an exclamation point and a question markfollowing.
“What are you doing?” Jodi asks.
“Research,” I say. The beginnings of an idea are forming.It could be an interesting academic topic, if I could find some existingresearch, test some theories, build on the body of literature that alreadyexists in the field, and write it up for a scholarly journal. Maybe I reallyshould start thinking about advancing my career in education.
While I’m at it, I could become Miss America and startgrowing my own hemp, because that’s how likely it is that I’ll act
