Arin pops up like a sea lion gasping for air. “Cooold,” her hands shake and she looks down at her jeans and then gives me a look. “Ashley, can you come with me to the bathroom?”
“Be right back,” I say, hoping to hide the obvious—that we’re going to the bathroom to discuss Seth and his giant, ice-water-spilling hands. I wish I could spare him the humiliation. Maybe I should have said something more at dinner that night. Maybe I should have been even more blunt—like hitting him with a two-by-four.
We head off to the women’s room and Arin breaks into childish giggles in the mirror. “Ashley, who is that poor guy again?”
She’s not making fun of him, she legitimately wants to know. I’m no longer thinking of my growling stomach. Arin has enjoyed this whole fiasco immensely and that little voice inside me shouts that she’s intrigued. Those beautiful gemstone eyes have transcended Seth’s baldness, past his idiot clumsiness. Pain rushes up into my throat, constricting the words.
“That’s Seth Greenwood,” I finally manage.
“Why’s he following me?”
“He probably thinks you’re cute, Arin,” I say. To be twenty-four again and actually have this explained to me. Sigh. And double sigh.
Arin dabs a paper towel on her jeans and I notice our contrasting shapes in the mirror’s reflection. I swear her jeans wouldn’t house half of me, and now my appreciation for Arin’s joie de vivre is seriously threatened. I feel gargantuan. Invisible and huge all at once.
“Ashley, why don’t you come with me to Costa Rica?” she asks, still staring down and working at her jeans.
My laughter echoes in the tiled, primary-colored bathroom. I fall onto the Corona-papered wall. “I have a job, for one thing.”
“So what? It will be there when you get back. You do get something called a vacation, don’t you? Don’t tell me you’re like these other geeks and never take one.”
I am like the other geeks. But we have a strong, motivating factor. We like to eat and pay our outrageous Palo Alto rents in the hopes that someday we can escape it all with early retirement. So we stock it up like squirrels, afraid to spend a cent lest we have to work until we’re sixty-five.
“I’m just like the others,” I admit. I think about the pile of possible patents waiting for me at home. Maybe I’m worse.
“Come on, Ashley. Come with me. It’s only a month. You would have such fun. Look at how pale you are. Do you ever get out of the office?”
“It’s January.”
“And it’s sixty-six degrees today and sunny. Perfect convertible weather. When’s the last time you took the top off on that TT of yours?”
“It takes time to take it off and store it.”
“When are you going to live your life, girlfriend?” She gives up on the water stain. It actually looks elegant running down her leg. She lives a charmed life.
“I am living life. I’m just older than you, and I have responsibilities.” Like using color-safe bleach at my leisure. You probably don’t even know there is such an animal. “I didn’t just get out of college, and I’m not in-between jobs at the moment. I’m in career mode. Besides, Costa Rica doesn’t sound the least bit intriguing to me. I’m not a real monkey or jungle kind of person. My idea of a vacation is a weekend at the spa. Don’t you have a roommate or some-one who’d like to go?”
“Nah. They’re heading in different directions. What did you do after college?” Arin persists. Okay, the perkiness is truly starting to get to me. She’s like a kitten full of energy and warmth, but the tenth time she’s undone your shoelace, it ceases to be cute.
“I went to law school after college.” I shrug, unsure where this conversation is headed, but preferring it to the Seth Discussion immensely.
“So what did you do before law school?” Arin’s gray-blue eyes are round with anticipation.
“I went to summer school and took a few classes to get them out of the way.”
She groans. “Didn’t you know you were supposed to take at least the summer and do something wild and frivolous? Before fulfilling responsibilities was your main goal in life? Promise me that you’ll do something fun while I’m gone. Even if it’s just to take the TT to the beach on Saturday afternoon with the top down. Promise me. I’m worried about you, Ashley. You’re not like the others, but you act just like them.”
It’s funny how something so insipid like the beach sounds completely out of the question to me. When did I get so ordered? Am I OCD? Nah, OCD is orderliness to an extreme. I’m just boring with a little anal-retentive thrown in. “You don’t even really know me,” I try. But she does. Somehow, this kid has me pegged.
She ignores my defense. “I want you to promise me to do something extreme. Something that challenges your life, gets you out of the rut, the way you did last night at the coffee house.”
Taking in a deep breath, I answer, “I promise.” Using a different brand of fabric softener is extreme. Or not Tivoing one of my reality shows—watching the commercials, now that’s really living on the edge.
“Now, come introduce me to Seth. He’s kind of sweet. Did you notice his eyes?”
“I have noticed.”
Arin starts to open the door and I stop her.
“Seth is pretty sensitive. I don’t want him to get his hopes up if nothing’s going to happen between you two.”
“I have a boyfriend!” Arin exclaims.
“A boyfriend you’d rather break up with. Besides, it only makes you more challenging. And guys like a challenge. Even engineers. Especially engineers.”
She visibly swallows and nods. “Okay, I get you.” She tosses her blond hair back and forth until she finds her seat.
How do you tell someone who speaks flirtation as such a natural form of communication that it’s playing with fire? She has no idea the authority she holds in her tiny swaying hips. I remember this great quote I heard once. “Men play at love to get sex, and women play at sex to get love.” Me, I don’t play at anything. I just work like the drone I am. But things are about to change. They have to, or soon I will keel over from sheer boredom. Arin may be young and naive, but she’s right about me. I need to get out of this rut, or I’ll live it forever.
When we get back to the table, all the men stand up and I am irritated beyond belief. These guys do have chivalrous bones in their bods! They just don’t think I’m worthy of it. As the men stand, I see that Tim Hanson’s hair plugs are filling in a bit and that’s the final straw. Tim has grown an entire colony of hair while I have done, what? Nothing but moan about my sorry life. That’s it.
I am Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale! One does not survive school with a moniker like that without a higher purpose in life. It’s time I found out what it is. I don’t bother to sit back down. This is my old life. This is a life that is going nowhere with a group of people who are too lethargic to yank the bell cord and get off the bus. But I have a destination! Granted, I don’t know where it is yet, but I am so going to get there.
I square my shoulders. I have breasts, I think to myself. Now there’s something you don’t get with Arin’s size-two frame—well, not without paying for them, anyway. I am woman, hear me roar! Maybe I will buy a sexy new bra today.
“You know, I have things I need to do. I’d better bow out of lunch this afternoon.” I’m smiling like I own this incredible secret. I am going to do something wild today.
Seth’s face screws up like a plump donut. “You’re leaving?” His voice cracks. He’s the epitome of coolness. Not.
Oddly, Arin’s face is in the same contorted expression. She has just figured out that she will be left to fend off these middle-aged engineers without my years of expertise or natural ability. I have started A Scene, and my eternally-taken-for-granted presence will be missed. Ah, the power.
“I’ll see you all next week,” I say like Vanna White and make my way to the door. I hear the murmurs go up, like what could possibly be more exciting than a Mexican meal with this fiesta gang? I can feel their eyes on
my back. For this one fleeting moment, I am Ashley, the cute one. I have the attention of every-one in the gang. And I do not trip.
Once at my car, I roll down all the windows. It’s gorgeous today. Nearly seventy degrees in January and I have just figured out why I pay the weather tax of living in California. I’m going to the beach. By myself. After I buy a bra.
Seth suddenly stands at my passenger window. “Ash, is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” I say without emotion. “I just have this overwhelming urge to go to the beach. I live in California. It’s time to take advantage of it. I want to be a tourist again and find out what happens outside the four walls of my office.”
Seth looks at me, his face still puckered like the end of a burrito. “Do you want me to go with you?”
I look into those crystal eyes, and I start to wither in my convictions. For a long time, I stare into his eyes wondering if he really wants to go or if he’s worried about me. Then, he speaks.
“Do you want me to invite Arin too?” he offers. Leave it to an engineer to pick the most opportune words for the moment.
“You know, I think I’d rather just go by myself.” The company’s better. “Besides, I have to get a new red bra at the mall.”
Seth’s face turns bright crimson, just like the color of lingerie I’m considering. “So I’ll see you soon,” I say.
“Are you mad at me, Ashley?”
“You know, Seth, I’m going to let you figure that one out.” His face is even more contorted.
“I wish you’d just tell me, Ashley. We’ve been friends for years, and lately I don’t understand a word you say.”
“Have fun with Arin today.” I don’t say it nastily, but in effect I am saying, Have fun with another man’s girl. Does this not register?
I’ve only confused him more. I race my car out of the parking lot, leaving him standing alone with his thoughts. But I don’t feel any victory. It’s more like the agony of defeat going on.
Now I know why I work so much. Work is so much easier than this relationship thing. Maybe I should invest in a good PlayStation II so I don’t have to discuss feelings, but instead talk about secret codes and keys in chambers. Maybe then I’d understand men.
9
With the wind in my hair and Seth in my rearview mirror, I am cruising the El Camino. I’m still Arin for the moment, princess extraordinaire! On the off-chance that her husband, John, is busy, I call Brea on my cell phone. She’s had enough time to recover physically, and I’m hopeful she’s feeling better emotionally. I nearly squeal with excitement when she tells me she is free as a bird.
Let the heavens rejoice, I will not be on my Underwear Quest alone. Brea’s anxious to lingerie-shop since the doctor said they could start trying again in two months. Do not want to go there, discussing the intimacies of her marriage, but I’m glad Brea wants to shop just the same. It makes the call of the beach pale in comparison.
Once I pick her up and I’m listening to Brea chatter about the meals she’s tried to cook recently, I realize it’s a necessity to have a friend that doesn’t question your immediate desire for a red bra. When one is single, celibate, and a patent attorney, a new red bra is never a priority. Brea knows that, but she never questions me. She just understands instinctively that my psyche needs the new red bra. And so we shop.
Stanford Shopping Center is the crown jewel of the Bay Area’s excess. It houses designer shops that most of middle-America has never heard of—and a pair of panties can set you back for a week’s pay. I don’t shop in those stores, but I can afford Bloomingdale’s, so that’s where we head under a bright California January sky.
The negative aspect about Bloomie’s is that you have to pass all the gorgeous “special occasion” dresses, and you must conquer the idea that, not only do you have no place to wear one of these fabulous gowns, but you probably never will. I take a deep breath, blocking out my negativity, and we climb the escalator. I can wear the red bra anywhere I want to!
“So what happened with the gang today?” Brea asks.
“They went to Chevys,” I respond. “Same ol’ stuff. Mexican style. Arriba!”
“Did you go?”
I shrug. “I didn’t stay. That group is going nowhere, and I’m already there. I’m turning in my singles group pass. I need to allocate my time better.”
“You’re just upset about Seth. You’ll get over it. And what else are you going to do? Work some more?”
“Oh, I am over him.” I proceed to tell Brea about Seth’s pathetic attempts at romance with Arin, right in front of my eyes. But my throat still fills with a big lump when I tell the story, so I’m not as over it as I’d like to be. I’ll save news of my brother’s wedding for later. One can only stomach so much of my life at once.
Brea sucks in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Ash. But you had your chance with Seth years ago, and you never took it.”
“What?” I laugh. “When did I have my chance with Seth?”
“He followed you around just like he’s doing with Arin now, and you never noticed. You were so busy with patents, and trips to Taiwan, that you never noticed him. Not until he noticed Arin.”
“Marriage has dulled your memory. Seth and I have never had anything going on.”
“You and Seth have been partners on the canoe trip, won the potato-sack races together, cuddled up for warmth on the hay ride . . . I could go on, but give me a break that you two didn’t have something going. You talk about him being clueless . . . sheesh.”
“We were friends,” I hold up my palms. “Besides, my leaving The Reasons doesn’t have anything to do with Seth. He’s just the catalyst. I’ve been in the same spot for three years running. Nothing ever changes. Nothing ever happens. How am I supposed to leave a mark on my world when I don’t even have a pen? I’m ready to color outside the lines. And my first project is this red bra.” I pick up a luscious scarlet brassiere. Demi-cut with lace scalloped edges. “I’m going to try this on.”
Brea lifts her eyebrows but says nothing.
Entering the dressing room, I undress and try the designer bra on for size. Major problem: the mirrors show your whole body. If I could just stare into a little half-mirror and see my cleavage propped up, I’d be fine, but that’s not what I see. There’s the three-way mirror in this dressing room. So I not only see my buxom chest, I see my little extra tummy hanging over my grandma seamless panties and the little extra handles in the back under the bra straps. Living with all these petite Asians, my frame feels like something out of the Amazon jungle, and this mirror agrees.
Call me tainted, but I’m expecting more of a model look here. But my real-woman figure looks like an ad for Michelin ready-treads, not lingerie. I’m starting to hyperventilate. I will definitely go to the beach when I’m done and I’m going to have another big chat with God.
I dress and slam the dressing room door. “That’s just depressing,” I say to Brea, but she’s wearing a smile as wide as a canyon.
She is already at the register, purchasing a black see-through number with a thong back. Ugh. I turn away, my face now the color of that first bra. Thinking of your best friend in lingerie is akin to thinking about your mother in it. It’s just not right.
I pick up another item to escape the visual I’ve just encountered. This one is violet. And has little push-up pads. Maybe that will help the back pucker . . .
This is the reason women shop. We’re ever hopeful that we’ll get into that dressing room and one particular item will give us the reflection we desire in that mirror. That ungodly three-way mirror.
Trying the purple one on, I focus only on the top half of my body and this one is not bad. I must have it. Even if it sits in my drawer for an eternity. I can tell Arin I did something wild.
Outside the dressing room, I see Nancy Hollings talking to Brea. Nancy was in our high school church teen group. The cheer-leader who was so enthusiastic she had a constant, plastered-on smile. She’s one of those Christians wh
o makes you wonder if she really lives in there. You know, the kind of person who hears some-one’s died and she comes back with the bouncy phrase, “He’s gone to be with the Lord. What a blessing!”
I try to turn back into the dressing room, but it’s too late, she’s seen me. “Ashley!” Nancy has a baby with her, and I can tell it’s upsetting Brea. So I know I must face the music or watch Brea break down publicly. I march over with determination.
“Nancy, how great to see you. Is this your baby?” I ask.
“This is Fitzsimon William Hollings Core.” She holds her baby up like the Lion King on Pride Rock, and I have to admit little Fitz is dreamy. He’s got full, chipmunk cheeks and a toothless grin to die for. “He’s four months old,” Nancy adds.
Four months! Nancy’s stomach is flatter than mine and that alone is enough to make me want to hurt her, but Brea’s expression of nausea gives me even more reason.
“He’s so cute. Congratulations,” I say in monotone, trying not to make much of the baby for Brea’s sake.
“He’s my third. The other two are with their dad today. He took them to the zoo to get them out of my hair.” She lets out a withered sigh. “I’m so glad to see you two. What have you both been up to?” Then she shifts little Fitz onto one hip and grabs my left hand. “Ashley, you’re not married yet?”
“I’ve been working on The Career. I’m a patent attorney.”
“You always were the smart one. But I’m so glad you’re still single! So’s my brother. I’m having him call you. Give me your business card.” She puts the baby back in his stroller. The kid is still grinning. He obviously takes after Mama, happy to a fault.
“Oh, Nancy, I don’t think . . .” But then I see Brea’s ashen face, which hasn’t left the baby. “That sounds like a great idea, why don’t you have Dan call me? Brea and I have a lunch date, so we have to run, but it’s really good to see you again. Really good.” I take out a business card and hand it to Nancy. “Have a great day,” I say with practically a kick of the toe.
I place the violet bra with Brea’s vision of sleaziness and she buys them both. I’ll get lunch, and we’ll get out of here all the quicker. With Brea, I don’t even need to explain. The deal is un-spoken and obvious to both of us.
What a Girl Wants Page 7
