“I don’t know why he annoys you so much,” Emma says, staring at the closed door our offices share. “He’s always nice to you. He tries, Poppy—you have to give him that.”
“He’s really not that kind, Emma. You’re just charmed by him. Like a snake in his basket. He plays a tune, and we all follow blindly.” I click my tongue, “And I’m no different.”
“Maybe I am charmed, but so what? Does everyone have think like you?”
“Of course not, but it would help if my office staff did. Do you know how many people I see sick from all the environmental triggers in the air? That man deliberately injects people with botulism for vanity’s sake. It’s his entire world-view I have trouble with. Not him, per se.”
“It’s not like he’s forcing it on people. He’s not at a loss for clients. That place is like Grand Central over there, and have you seen they’re carrying that really good mineral makeup at the medical spa?”
I look at her with my naked face. “No, I hadn’t noticed.”
One thing about Emma, what she lacks in ambition she more than makes up for in opinion. “What makes you think you have any right to change him, Poppy?”
“Don’t you see, Hollywood is forcing it—people have an unnatural desire to be youthful. It’s so important to maintain balance in all areas of your life. If you don’t want to age, you should live a healthy lifestyle.”
“Remember that Grape Nuts guy did that, and he still died. Besides, it’s not all about health; it’s about looking good too. No one wants to go through life with 9 percent body fat and the face of a troll, am I right?” Emma asks.
“How can the body work against those poisons he injects, Emma?” I shake my head. “He just wakes up wrong every day. We can’t all age like Cher. We shouldn’t. It isn’t natural.”
“Of course it isn’t natural. That’s why it’s called plastic surgery. Plastic, not so natural. Surgery, not natural. What does that have to do with you taking his parking space everyday?” Emma asks.
“It just makes me feel better, all right? Sort of my own way of balancing him out. I’m the yin to his yang. I bring balance to his world.”
“I don’t know. I like him. He’s always very complimentary of you.” Emma looks at the door, like a retriever waiting for its owner to return. “You don’t have to agree with each other to share office space.” She shrugs. “What do you say to each other at church when you attend?”
“Nothing. And he’s complimentary of everyone, Emma. It’s how he makes his money. ‘Oh, you’re beautiful, dahlink!’ Let me flash my fake smile at you as an exclamation point. He’s a used car salesman with a knife. No wait, that’s too unkind to the car salesman!”
“I just think you could work a little harder to be neighborly. Love thy neighbor as thyself, and all that.”
“I am being neighborly. I’m showing him that his neighbor is valuable even in an American vehicle.”
“No, you’re being motherly. Like you always are—you think you’re Mother Earth and you can parent the rest of us so much better than we can handle our own lives.” Emma grabs up her purse, which is weighted down with foodstuffs. She gnaws constantly, like a chipmunk, usually on some grain, and has such a high metabolism she even makes the scales nervous. “Want something from next door?”
I shake my head. There’s a café next door. It’s a tiny, Greek place with wonderful delicacies like hummus and grape-leaf sandwiches, but my encounter with Dr. Nip/Tuck has left me without an appetite. “I have a full schedule this afternoon. I want to keep the patients moving through, and I think I’ll just run for a while. I need to clear my head.”
“You already ran this morning. You’re going to look like one of those Hollywood starlets with the stick figure and a big balloon head perched on the shoulders. Is that what you want?”
“I’m just going a mile. I won’t be ten minutes. I’ll eat something fattening when I get back, all right?”
As Emma shuts the door for the lunch break, I allow my body to fall and mold into my ergonomic chair, made especially for my spine. Who wants to be loved for her beauty anyway? Anyone can be beautiful. If they’re not by nature, Jeff seems to be able to boil just such a brew next door.
This morning’s situation makes me anxious about the wedding all over again. Why should I bow down to society’s whims? I don’t believe in plastic surgery; that’s easily explained. So why isn’t it just as easy that I don’t want a date for Morgan’s wedding? This is my second best friend to get married within six months. I don’t want to go with just anyone. Of course, if I go alone, people take pictures, and I get to remember I was alone during the day. It’s just not a history I care to relive either way. Is that so wrong?
The way I see it, I have two choices: first, I can tell Morgan and Lilly, my best friends and Spa Girls, that I already have a date for Morgan’s wedding. This would involve lying and I’m a terrible liar. I’d never get away with it. Lilly’s got the eagle eye for truth.
My second option is that I can act as though the wedding means nothing to me and lure some unsuspecting male friend into being my escort. The wedding of course involves two full months of festivities. There’s the couples’ shower, the dinners with out-of-town guests, and, naturally, the rehearsal dinner and wedding. Where am I going to find a date to fill two months of drudgery? Between thoughts of the first shower and the final wave from the “Just Married” limo, my head starts to hurt.
I haven’t had a boyfriend that lasted for two months in, well, I don’t want to say. A long time. Statistically, my chances of holding onto a boyfriend for two months are not pretty, especially since I have no current prospects. Okay, technically, I have no future prospects at the moment, either, but I’m not about to admit that. I must seek out a different avenue in telling my best friends that I’m right on this one.
It wouldn’t be a big deal that I was dateless in San Francisco if I didn’t know Lilly and Morgan were looming with someone to fill the vacancy. Friends always think they know best in terms of your dating options, and let’s just say I’d let them pick me an entire wardrobe before I let them find me my wedding date.
I look up at the clock and realize my running time is quickly dwindling. “I’m just going to call Morgan and Lilly and tell them I’m coming alone.”
The phone rings. And rings. Emma has obviously left for lunch already—and why wouldn’t she? It’s 11:30 and it’s been at least ten minutes since her last snack.
“Dr. Poppy’s office,” I answer.
“Poppy, it’s Lilly.”
My stomach twirls a bit as I think about my next move. “Hey, Lilly, how’s everything coming for the couples’ shower?” I ask.
“What? Oh, fine, fine. Morgan and George are going to love it. I’ve got the invitations all set. And hey, did you get the times and gift suggestions prepared for the Round-the-Clock shower? I’m going to need those soon.”
“I’ll e-mail them to you today. I’ve got them all finished. You know what I did?”
“Do I want to?” Lilly asks.
“Every two hours is an organ meridian in the Chinese acupuncture clock. I came up with gifts that go with those two hours, to nurture their health. Isn’t that terrific?”
Lilly sighs. “Example, please?”
“Okay, you know how everyone needs a pick-me-up at three in the afternoon? That’s your bladder meridian, and lack of a healthy meridian there can cause fear and a tensed nervous system. So gift suggestions are aromatherapy candles and bath products.”
She sighs again. Louder this time. “You know, Poppy, what’s wrong with just saying the afternoon’s for tea time? Three to five can be tea time, and you can suggest that someone buy a teapot. It’s better than reminding people of the bride’s bodily functions, don’t you think?”
“Well, that’s weird,” I shrug. “Who has tea time in America?”
“Right,” Lilly says. “Because in America, we’re busy having bladder time instead.”
“We should be,�
� I say. “Improper bladder function is what causes that afternoon fatigue. God created your organs to work in harmony, Lilly. It’s not a joke to ignore them.”
“I’ll do the time features. Thanks for trying. I don’t even want to know when colon time is.”
“Lilly, you can’t just take everything over.”
“Poppy, you can’t just make Morgan’s shower sound like a New Age gift show. If you show up with healing rocks, you’re outta there.”
I’m quiet. I can’t really answer to that. I don’t believe in the healing power of rocks. But hello? I worked hard on those gift suggestions. Sure, I knew they weren’t the norm, but neither is Morgan. She’s special and I wanted her shower to reflect that. Anyone can do a twenty-four-hour shower. Big deal.
“What I really called about, Poppy—and don’t hang up until you hear me out.”
I look around my office thinking of my alternatives, and yeah, I can hear her out. “I’m listening. Have you been taking that elixir I sent you home with?”
She ignores my question. “Now, we know you have no trouble meeting men. Heck, we’ve been beside you long enough to know all hail the redhead. But Morgan and I met this great guy last night and we thought maybe—”
No, I certainly don’t have any trouble meeting men. It’s the red hair—it’s like a guy magnet. I think all those Maureen O’Hara-John Wayne movies conditioned men to believe taming the fiery redhead is some sort of hero ambition. Of course, I’m nothing like Maureen O’Hara, and I usually turn out to be a big disappointment to those with preconceived ideas. Once I’ve told a man how he needs to improve his kidney function or pump his adrenals, the O’Hara fantasy generally evaporates quickly.
So a blind date is not on my priority list. “Lilly, you know I appreciate you two, but I’ve decided I’m coming to the wedding alone. The pressure of getting a date is just doing nothing for my peace levels. Every time I think about it, I want to run. I’m sure this guy is wonderful, and you can invite him to the wedding and maybe it will be love at first sight. I’ll be overcome by his magnetism, and you can tell me that you told me so. All right?”
“Really, Poppy, you’d like him, and he has a great spine. Very tall. His color is good. He could star in a vitamin ad. Really. You’d love him or I wouldn’t have picked him out for you.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what my dad said about my stepmother— that I’d love her. And we all know where that headed.”
“You’re not going to even give this a chance, are you?”
“Not even a whisper of a chance.” If there’s anything more pathetic than not having a date, or wanting one, it’s being told the perfect man is out there. Here’s the problem with this: your friends, well meaning as they may be, set you up with some form of an ape, and then you question not only yourself, but what your friends must think of you. So I start to pedal quickly. “I’m training for the triathlon in Hawaii and that’s my focus. What’s it to you if I show up alone?”
She’s quiet for a minute—which, may I say, is not like Lilly. “Don’t take offense, Poppy, but lately, your natural-health thing is consuming you. The running, the swimming, the eating weird foodstuffs . . . We’re starting to get concerned.”
“I’ll eat what I’m served at the wedding, Lilly.”
“Morgan has taken a lot of flack in the city, what with her father being in jail and a lot of the socialites thinking she belongs there too. Her wedding day is a chance to start fresh. To walk down the aisle with George and little Georgie and know that her history is just that: history. We just need to do what we can to make this day great for her.”
“What do my health interests have to do with Morgan’s wedding?”
“Isn’t it true that at my wedding reception you told the mayor his teeth-whitening system had been linked to cancer?”
“Yeah, but it has and—”
“And isn’t it also true that you told my Nana’s boyfriend that his esophagus spasms could be helped with a proper diet? And you started to write it down?”
“He can’t eat like that and not expect some repercussions.”
“Nana lives to cook for him, Poppy. You ticked both of them off and I had to explain how you are a natural health food promoter.”
“So what does this have to do with Morgan’s wedding? You don’t want me to talk about health, fine, I’ll shut up.”
“Morgan’s had a rough year. She’s been in the newspaper for nothing but scandal for a long time now. This is her day, and no one needs to be diagnosed at the wedding.”
I catch my breath and feel a welt in my throat as I realize my friends don’t really want me at the wedding. They want the Stanford Poppy—the one who graduated with them and was little more than a bad dresser.
I embarrass my friends. I know I’m different. I’m not prone to care what the world thinks, but I realize, with a sharp pain, that I do care what Morgan and Lilly think. I’ve always been proud to be different. Until this moment, anyway.
Lilly’s already married. I obviously didn’t do any real damage at her wedding. She’s pregnant, too, so I fail to see how my actions could harm anything in Morgan’s celebration. George loves her. His son, Georgie, loves her. If I tell someone they need more whole grains, how is that going to hurt anything?
I let out a deep breath. “Fine. I won’t say a thing, even if someone’s liver is puffing their face up to the size of a super tomato. I’ll say nothing,” I vow.
“You can’t help yourself,” Lilly continues. “You’re a natural mother, and you want to mother everyone, and I’m just asking, for this one day, can you put a muzzle on it?”
Can I? I’m sure I probably could, but what about me will be at the wedding? If they want my shell, maybe they could call Stepford.
“I put up with your hair obsession. This is my weirdness; you have to accept it. That’s the cost of being my friend.” Lilly thought at one time that all of her life’s woes were caused by bushy, frizzy Italian hair. She eventually learned it was merely an excuse.
But Lilly doesn’t back down. “Get a date, or I’ll find one for you,” she says. “You’re not going to try and make me feel guilty. He can be as earthy as you like. Just get one or I’ll get one for you.”
“I don’t believe you’ll get me one,” I say, challenging my best friend.
“Try me. Show up alone, and I’ll have someone meet you at the door, and he might have a lace muzzle I’ve sewn.”
This makes me laugh. “Who would you get?”
“Nate, if you’re not careful.”
Nate’s her former toad neighbor who goes through women like Kleenex. “I’ll find a date.” So much for Eleanor Roosevelt and my suffragettes. In the world of weddings, a girl is in need of a date. Sometimes we are so Victorian.
Lilly offers one last stand. “This is for your own good.”
“What if I’m destined to be single for the rest of my life, and you’re upsetting the balance of nature and God’s plan?”
“I’ll take it up with Him. See ya, love.” Lilly hangs up the phone, and I’m in no better place than I was before the conversation.
I slide into my running shoes, lace them up, and exit through the back door of my office. Dr. Jeff is getting into his Lexus—which I called a Beamer just to bug him—and there’s an awkward moment where we should probably acknowledge each other’s presence, but don’t. A Lexus convertible, I think to myself. Little cars for little men.
chapter 2
Another mile run.
Desperation scale: 1 (I’m good!)
Running always clears my head. It’s my sanity and I thank the Lord that my legs work well enough to carry me into this realm of quiet communion with Him. I can get so bogged down in the day-to-day grind, lost to my anxieties and pressure to make the world a better place. When I run, it feels like I’m leaving my problems behind me, riding the wind to freedom and allowing myself to remember I do not control the universe. I should, but I don’t.
As I pass the eucalyptus
trees that line the road, inhaling their fresh, cleansing scent, I can hardly believe my friends think I’ll embarrass them without a date. Don’t they know me by now? I can embarrass them with a date too. But I wouldn’t do that. My best friends have found their soul mates and that’s enough for me. Their joy is enough for me. And I can survive anything for five hours, even a dancing relative with BO. I’ll just have to borrow Lilly’s Vicks VapoRub. The only thing left to do is decide between curtain number one (mercy date) or curtain number two (finding my own victim).
As I approach the office complex, I start to slow my pace a little, and for once, I feel a tinge of guilt seeing my car in Jeff’s spot. Not because it’s his spot; I already explained that. But because I don’t really care. Why do I knowingly upset him for pleasure? What kind of sick person does things like that? I don’t like what the visual says about me, and I hope God is missing this little portion of my day. Sometimes the definition of Christian feels so narrow.
I pull my car keys from my fanny pack, slide into my car, and move it to the back forty of the parking lot. While there, I notice a small convertible with the top down. There’s a blonde talking on her cell phone, loudly.
“Are you going to help me or not? I want a divorce. You want a divorce. Let’s just get it over with! If you were this patient in our marriage, we wouldn’t have this problem.” She snaps her phone shut and eyes me with a smile as though I haven’t just overheard her most private and painful conversation. At least, it should be painful. She doesn’t look terribly upset.
“I couldn’t help overhearing,” I say to her as she gets out of the car. Her legs go on forever, and she’s wearing spiky heels I can only guess have some sort of name attached to them. I’m sure Lilly or Morgan would know the brand.
“Are you selling something?” she asks me, looking down from her lofty view.
“No, I’m not selling anything. I just wanted to know if there was anything I could do for you. It sounds like you’re having a tough day.” I point to the complex. “I’m a chiropractor and I also do Chinese medicine. Things that deal with the emotional aspects of health.”
Calm, Cool, and Adjusted Page 2
