Calm, Cool, and Adjusted (18 page)
“So how will I know if they pass the first test?” I ask. “Maybe I want them to look past the skirt.”
“Men don’t notice clothes, anyway. They only care what’s underneath them.” Morgan shrugs.
“Morgan! That sounded like something Lilly would say.”
“It’s true. The men don’t care if she wears that ugly skirt. They see her red hair, and they lose it. They always have. Even that senator’s son at Stanford. He went crazy for beatnik Poppy.”
“Morgan!” I yell again. “What are you turning into? Lilly?”
She pauses, smoothing her pretty blonde hair and blinking her wide eyes. “Well, Poppy, do you think that skirt is pretty? That you’re adorning yourself in any way? Do you think it makes you appealing?” she asks.
I look down at my mother’s dingy skirt and notice just how many strings are hanging from its hem. “I suppose not, but my mother thought it was more important to care about the earth and its inhabitants than arbitrary things like clothing. Daddy too. At least at one time.” I think about my dad’s love of Sharon and her well-sculpted over-fifty body, always dressed like a Christmas package. Neatly wrapped and with all the accessories to look special. “My father may have forgotten, but I haven’t.”
“She’s impossible.” Lilly shakes her head. “Poppy, our mothers are gone too. You can’t keep her around with her ugly skirts. Morgan can’t keep her mother around through her jewelry, and I can’t keep mine around period. Your dad loved your mother. He didn’t betray her by marrying someone different after she died. You need to get over it.”
We all sit around staring at each other for a moment. We’re probably thinking about our mothers, how Lilly’s slipped off into a new life and left her with a grandmother, Morgan’s succumbed to a horrible cancer after a horrific marriage, and mine slipped into a diabetic coma, never to wake again because of the dangers of sugar and insulin.
“Well, this is depressing,” Lilly finally says. “Let’s go shopping and get you some clothes. We’ll burn that thing when we get back. It will be symbolic. Our new life starts now. We start our families, you start trying to not scare men.”
For a moment, I’ll admit I’m tempted. I liked the way I felt out the other night with Jeff. Well, except for the getting blindsided and the pantyhose stuck to my toes because my shoes were too big. Other than that, I liked the skirt and the heels. It was a good calf exercise too. It was a workout just to walk. A little yoga involved in keeping my balance, even.
I slip off my shoe and show off my neatly painted pink toenails. “I’m making progress every day.” Generally, when we stop for our pedicures on the way to the spa, I avoid color. Today, rather than pearl, which Lilly calls wheat, I picked bright pink. I feel almost scandalous.
“We thought you were painting your toenails for a guy,” Morgan says, her frown apparent.
I don’t explain that I only get the pedicures for them. I personally could do without someone touching my feet and painting a toxic colored shell on my nails, but I know when to back down. Everyone seems to love pedicures, so I figure I should at least find a way to enjoy the experience. The pink was just one more way to show them I could play. Here I’m feeling like Gwen Stefani and they’re disappointed.
“Would it make you two feel better to make me over? To know you’d done everything you could possibly do to get me married?”
They both nod.
“Okay, so the pink isn’t cutting it. Go ahead, make me over. I have nothing to fear.” I sit down on the balcony and cross my arms.
The two of them are like two plucky birds planning their next move and chattering excitedly. “First, we’re putting you in makeup,” Morgan says. “Just a little light powder foundation. Nothing heavy.”
I sit in the chair while Morgan takes out a compact, hands me a mirror, and smothers my face with a pasty beige film. “See? Very simple, and you’ve completely evened out your tone.” Then Morgan breaks out the mascara. “Your eyes are incredible, but they need mascara to stand out.”
“Don’t forget the eyeliner,” Lilly adds. “Just think, if you weren’t busy wearing that colored sack, people would truly see you. You might find someone like Max,” she says about her husband.
“Or George,” Morgan says about her fiancé.
I look into their faces, and I remember when they too had no hope and spent lots of evenings on bad dates, getting set up with old men and worse, but my current mood wins out. “But you know, the guy could be allergic to cats.”
“Look up,” Morgan commands while finishing my mascara.
“And you could fix that with your voodoo,” Lilly says, referring to the allergy relief acupressure that I practice.
“All right, let’s see what you’ve got.” I laugh, reaching for the folder with the online dating possibilities, though my hopes couldn’t be any lower. Computer dating? Where’s the chemistry in that? I take a deep breath and force myself to think positively. My soul mate could be in this folder. “This is just like take-out. Only a guy comes with the pizza. I’ll take tall, dark, and handsome with a side of anchovies.”
“That’s when you get one from Russia.” Morgan says, and considering she was once engaged to a Russian consulate, it makes me wonder how much truth there is to her comment. “This is different. This is simply online dating.”
“These guys are more afraid of commitment since they don’t get a green card with each purchase,” Lilly says.
My friends, helpful as always, have printed out several bios. I rifle through each page with a disappointed frown. “Every one of these guys says they want an athletic woman.” I scrunch my face up at the sight of the word over and over again:
Athletic.
Must be Athletic.
Slender and athletic.
You: an athlete. Me: your partner in sports.
I’m into kayaking, hiking and conquering the next mountain. You’re there with me.
Um, no. I’m not.
“So what if they want athletic,” Lilly shrugs. “You’re athletic.”
“But you’re not reading what they’re really selling. Look at this guy, he must be 275 pounds. Bowling is not a sport, and he’s not athletic. What he’s saying is you must be skinny and look like a model, even if I resemble a human warthog. These men are single because they think they’ve bought the Cinderella fairy tale in reverse. Only they aren’t Prince Charming, and they most certainly don’t have a kingdom. But by golly, she better have tiny feet, fit into the glass corset, and worship the ground he walks on. They grew up on Bond, and they believe it.”
“You’re cynical,” Lilly accuses. “And coming from me, that’s saying something, because I’m cynical.”
“Tiny feet are a qualification you still meet,” Morgan offers. “What’s the problem?”
“You don’t get it—
athletic
is simply a thesaurus word for
thin
. No fat chicks need apply. And while I may not have that issue, I do not want to hook up with someone who values their women solely by the exterior. These men are shallow. These men are why Dr. Jeff has a practice.”
“You don’t know that; maybe they’re just wishful thinkers. Come on, tell me if you made your list, it wouldn’t say ‘
Looks like Johnny Depp and understands the way the intestinal system functions.
’”
“Lilly!”
“Look at this guy. He says he’s a Christian and looking for his Proverbs 31 woman.”
I grab the paper. “He’s forty-seven, Morgan. If he hasn’t found her by now, he may as well be looking for his Proverbs 54 woman because she’s not out there.”
She grabs the paper. “Sorry, I missed that. He doesn’t look that old.”
“He probably got the picture from the J. C. Penney catalog.”
“Look, if you don’t want to get married, that’s fine Poppy. We respect that,” Lilly says. “But what we don’t respect is your spending every day running farther and faster to nothing. Your body-fat percentage is not a worthy life’s goal; you’re better than that, Poppy.”
“But these guys are looking for
America’s Next Top Model
while they themselves belong on
The Biggest Loser
. Men seem to have this special mirror. In it, they are all Bond, James Bond, and looking for their Bond girl. When they’re Christian, make that the Proverbs 31 Bond Girl.”
“Not every guy is that shallow. You’re reading too much into that; you’re not giving them a chance.”
“Look at this. He says, ‘No one under 5’3”.’”
“You’re five-nine,” Lilly reminds me.
“This guy is five-six if he’s a foot.” I hold up the picture.
“But maybe he has the soul of the Christian Ghandi,” Morgan says encouragingly.
I hand her back the folder. “I just think when I’m ready, I’ll be ready. I’m not ready. Not for this, anyway. I’m still recovering from my so-called date with Jeff. Which cost me my office space.”
She takes the folder and sighs. “So your life’s goal is what? A clean digestive tract?” Lilly lifts her lip in disgust. “At least have a purpose. Then we’ll leave you alone. If you want to go to the deserts of Africa and preach, we’ll support that. If you want to straighten the most crooked spines in all of India, we’ll support that, help you raise funds even. But if you want to hide out in that little office of yours and pretend the fun girl in college never existed, want to hide her away in ugly skirts so she won’t get hurt again . . . ? Yeah, we’re not into that.”
“You need to go back to Santa Cruz and finish this,” Morgan says.
I look at their sincerity and the depth in their gazes and I love these women. But I don’t think Santa Cruz is going to solve a thing. I left that history there. Only the skirts came with me.
Really.
M
y favorite skirt disappeared this weekend. Of course, I have more than a subtle idea where it went, but it’s missing just the same. In its place, Lilly left me something she made for me in hopes that my hippy style might disappear. I like what she left me. It’s comfortable and fashionable. Apparently peasant skirts are back, and she made me one in a soft, buttery-cream cotton. Truly, I feel like myself with a touch of princess, and I want to spin like a little girl in her first Easter dress.
As I unlock the office door, I hear giggling and look at Jeff’s office to see the blonde from the convertible exiting. That girl is trouble personified and she’s everywhere. I let myself into the office and slam the door behind me.
Men are so clueless.
The last time I saw her she was kissing Simon for fifty bucks. In my day we had a name for that. Wrap something up in a beautiful package, and men’s IQs fall to single digits. I’m not jealous, just sort of disappointed Jeff is no better than that. Now, not only is he missing fruit, but he’s a little nutty to boot.
I sit down at my desk and hear a small knock at the door. Moving the curtain aside, I see Jeff standing outside. “Can I come in?” he shouts through the door. I open it, crossing my arms at Mr. Flirtation. And on a Sunday, no less. “I assume that door slam was for me?” he asks.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“So it’s true what they say about the fiery redhead. You’re a jealous one then? How exciting.” He rubs his hands together.
“Jealous of what? I’m just mad you took my parking space. It’s Sunday. Don’t you ever go home? Get yourself a life, and all that?”
“I thought we agreed that it was
my
parking space. One blonde and the deal’s off, huh? Women. I’ll never understand them. You basically told me I was human vermin the other night. What do you want from me, Poppy?”
“I didn’t know the parking deal extended to weekends,” I say, trying to dig myself out of this hole. What is that little part in women where we take ownership of someone? Even when we don’t really want them and when they’re perfectly free to marry another? In the back of my mind I can’t help but think he’s my date for the wedding, and can he not be flirtation-celibate for a few measly weeks? I hate that I care what he does, but my mouth just betrays me when he’s around. I say things I can’t imagine myself saying and all sense of peace goes out the window.
“Are you going to church tonight?” he asks me. We go to a megachurch that has a huge Sunday night singles group. I go for the worship and sit in the back, sneaking out early before the migration to the hamburger and pizza joints kicks in, while Jeff seems to be right in the middle of everything, passing out business cards at after-church events and being as friendly as possible. He’s a regular Mae West.
Come on up and see me sometime.
“I’m going. After I finish a little paperwork,” I say with as little expression as possible.
“Do you want to drive together?”
Why would I want to do that?
“In that thing?” I ask, staring at his Lexus.
“It’s my car. I don’t have a glass carriage around the corner if that’s what you’re waiting for.”
“Who’s the blonde?”
He smiles slightly, “She’s a pharmaceutical saleswoman who’s selling more than the product. I’m not buying, in case you’re interested.”
“I’m not. She works on weekends?”
“But if you were interested in me, not the pharmaceuticals, would it bother you?”
I poke my hair behind my ear. “Why would it?” I ask, meeting his gaze.
“I don’t know.” His usual bravado disappears from his voice and he shrugs. “I was a bit hopeful, I guess. It’s not everyday a redhead looks my way.”
“We can be friends, can’t we?” I ask, hoping to wave the white flag. I know we both feel this chemistry, but I’m also practical. In addition to finding him incredibly attractive, I also think he’s the scourge of the earth.
“You know, Poppy, plastic surgeons aren’t met with any more grace in church than an alternative healing expert. I know that you think I look down on you for what you do, and maybe I have had an attitude, but I get the same thing. It’s no different for me.”
“I think it is. You’re a doctor, and therefore a catch at church, regardless of what you do with your day.”
He exhales deeply. “I’d like to be respected for what I do, Poppy, not just looked at like a Christian wallet for someone.”
“What about the four kids and the barefoot-and-pregnant thing?”
“I think you’re remembering that a little differently than I might have said it,” he laughs. “I want four kids, and I believe in traditional roles. I assume that’s what you’re speaking of?”
