I think I have more of those moments than other people my age. Maybe there is a big universal embarrassment bank in the Grand Scheme of Things and once our account gets full, we don’t have any more of these moments. That way I could be a really cool old lady who did nothing but the perfect thing, admired by all. Maybe, but I doubted it.
As I looked in the mirror in bathroom number four-hundred-fifty-two of the Hanson luxury compound, I hoped I would never have to live this down. Trudy’s legs were too long, her boobs too big, and her hips too small for me to borrow any of her clothes. Daffy, unfortunately, was more my size, although everything was still too big across the chest. Her closet was full of only this season’s hottest fashions and nothing else. None of it was practical in any way and most of it was horrid. She made a big deal about her generosity in allowing me to wear her latest purchase from London—a suit in a color that had no name and was impossible to describe. Think cat barf after a garbage-can raid behind the nearest Thai restaurant, and you might be close. It was a lumpy, tweedy thing the texture of barf, too. It was trimmed in real raccoon fur and the fur went around the bodice, so I looked like the raccoon was hugging me. Did I mention the fur was tinted aqua and fuchsia so you could still see the ghost raccoon stripes? Daffy’s Manolo Blahnik fuchsia leather pumps with clear Plexiglas three-inch heels had clear windows at the tips that showed my white squished-together unpainted toenails. The final insult was that my Meg Ryan messy cut had to be “toned down.” Trudy said I would stick out like a sore thumb, so she suggested a flipped-out bob that half the zip code was wearing now. Trudy stuck a jeweled barrette in above my left ear.
As I futilely patted down the fur that tickled my chin and prayed no PETA member would be attending the mixer, I realized that I not only clashed with myself, I clashed with the peacock-feather–looking wallpaper. With a sigh, I turned on the peacock-tail–shaped spigot at the sink and picked up the peacock-molded soap to wash my hands. I dried my hands on (you guessed it) a peacock-embroidered towel and steeled myself for going out in public. I’d escaped to the bathroom as soon as we walked in the door. Now I couldn’t put it off any longer.
“Reyn!” Trudy hissed through the door. “Get out here right now.”
“I’m primping.”
“Save it for someone who’ll buy it. You’ve never primped in your life.”
True. I hated when she was right. I emerged. “How did you find me?”
“I’ve checked at least a dozen bathrooms. I figured you’d gone into hiding.”
“Hiding? Why is she hiding? Isn’t this fun? I’m having so much fun. And I know you are, too.” Charlotte Holmes stopped to take a breath, which was always the best time to stop her incessant flow of chatter.
“Yes, Charlotte,” I interjected quickly. “I’m having more fun than I can stand.”
“Let’s get you back to the action, then.” Trudy led the way back down the hall.
“It’s going to be so cool to have you in the League, Reyn,” Charlotte began before we could take two steps toward the cavernous sunroom that opened into the gardens where most of the platters of hors d’oeuvres and fruit lay. “We’ll do our community service together.”
As we wound our way through the assembled group, it seemed half the women were already drunk, while the other half were either pregnant or nursing and held tight to virgin mint juleps. I was so overwhelmed that I was ready for an IV line of Chardonnay. I stopped myself from reaching for one of the glasses being circulated by the tuxedo-clad caterers because I wanted to stay sharp while I got the dirt on Wilma.
Charlotte hadn’t stopped talking, but that was her way. In the two years since she’d started coming to me to get her brunet curls trimmed, I’d mastered the art of listening to her on two planes. I could take in
As I looked in the mirror in bathroom number four-hundred-fifty-two of the Hanson luxury compound, I hoped I would never have to live this down. Trudy’s legs were too long, her boobs too big, and her hips too small for me to borrow any of her clothes. Daffy, unfortunately, was more my size, although everything was still too big across the chest. Her closet was full of only this season’s hottest fashions and nothing else. None of it was practical in any way and most of it was horrid. She made a big deal about her generosity in allowing me to wear her latest purchase from London—a suit in a color that had no name and was impossible to describe. Think cat barf after a garbage-can raid behind the nearest Thai restaurant, and you might be close. It was a lumpy, tweedy thing the texture of barf, too. It was trimmed in real raccoon fur and the fur went around the bodice, so I looked like the raccoon was hugging me. Did I mention the fur was tinted aqua and fuchsia so you could still see the ghost raccoon stripes? Daffy’s Manolo Blahnik fuchsia leather pumps with clear Plexiglas three-inch heels had clear windows at the tips that showed my white squished-together unpainted toenails. The final insult was that my Meg Ryan messy cut had to be “toned down.” Trudy said I would stick out like a sore thumb, so she suggested a flipped-out bob that half the zip code was wearing now. Trudy stuck a jeweled barrette in above my left ear.
As I futilely patted down the fur that tickled my chin and prayed no PETA member would be attending the mixer, I realized that I not only clashed with myself, I clashed with the peacock-feather–looking wallpaper. With a sigh, I turned on the peacock-tail–shaped spigot at the sink and picked up the peacock-molded soap to wash my hands. I dried my hands on (you guessed it) a peacock-embroidered towel and steeled myself for going out in public. I’d escaped to the bathroom as soon as we walked in the door. Now I couldn’t put it off any longer.
“Reyn!” Trudy hissed through the door. “Get out here right now.”
“I’m primping.”
“Save it for someone who’ll buy it. You’ve never primped in your life.”
True. I hated when she was right. I emerged. “How did you find me?”
“I’ve checked at least a dozen bathrooms. I figured you’d gone into hiding.”
“Hiding? Why is she hiding? Isn’t this fun? I’m having so much fun. And I know you are, too.” Charlotte Holmes stopped to take a breath, which was always the best time to stop her incessant flow of chatter.
“Yes, Charlotte,” I interjected quickly. “I’m having more fun than I can stand.”
“Let’s get you back to the action, then.” Trudy led the way back down the hall.
“It’s going to be so cool to have you in the League, Reyn,” Charlotte began before we could take two steps toward the cavernous sunroom that opened into the gardens where most of the platters of hors d’oeuvres and fruit lay. “We’ll do our community service together.”
As we wound our way through the assembled group, it seemed half the women were already drunk, while the other half were either pregnant or nursing and held tight to virgin mint juleps. I was so overwhelmed that I was ready for an IV line of Chardonnay. I stopped myself from reaching for one of the glasses being circulated by the tuxedo-clad caterers because I wanted to stay sharp while I got the dirt on Wilma.
Charlotte hadn’t stopped talking, but that was her way. In the two years since she’d started coming to me to get her brunet curls trimmed, I’d mastered the art of listening to her on two planes. I could take in
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