“Next, I’d like to throw an open house. Last night proved we can draw a crowd and garner publicity.”
In a strange twist of fate, inviting the journalist to the seminar had worked. My diatribe was a result of my frustration and the media’s obsession with the sex lives of celebrities and senior citizens coming to a head, but along the way, I’d accidentally stumbled on the perfect marketing strategy.
After all, the only people who wouldn’t want to be on vacation forever are weirdo workaholics like me.
…
“I don’t know.” Arlene’s voice drifts from behind the thick curtain of the dressing room, over to where Grandma Helen, Wanda, Rita, and I are seated on a cushy upholstered bench with giant buttons that don’t serve any function.
“Come on out and let us see,” Grandma Helen bosses.
“That’s another thing I don’t know. I’m not sure I want anyone seein’ me in this outfit, not even the mirror in here.”
I check another line of boxes and hit the little trashcan icon, clearing my inbox of every email I’ve dealt with so I can better see what’s left. “If you don’t feel comfortable,” I say, opening up the press release draft I’ve been working on, “that probably means it’s not the right outfit.”
The other three women on the chaise glare at me as if they hadn’t sent a text at 6:07 this evening, informing me the workday was officially over. They then ordered me to meet them down the street at Elegance and Grace Clothing Boutique. And to hurry.
A woman wearing a flowy, tiger-print caftan with a bejeweled broach greeted me upon my arrival, snowy locks pulled into a super high, Ariana-Grande-style ponytail—I only hoped I could slay a look that hard in my sixties.
I haven’t seen any of the articles Arlene took into the dressing room, but as I’d passed the racks of clothing, I noticed flashy was the overall theme. With the fabrics bright and neon and the prints extra busy, the pieces were showstoppers, if not missing a tad of the advertised elegance.
“Say something,” Grandma Helen hisses. She gives my shoulder a nudge in case it wasn’t clear she means me, imploring me to do the very thing most people want me to do and “fix it.”
“Perhaps if I’d been apprised of the objective going in,” I whisper-yell.
“If you didn’t remain at the office so late,” my grandma claps back, “perhapswe would’ve had the chance to tell you that Arlene’s trying on outfits for her upcoming date.”
“The first date I’ve had in fifty years,” comes her muffled reply through the curtain. “That’s a half a century! Which is why I can’t wear this or anything I already have in my closet. Or anything at all.”
“Now you’re talking,” Wanda says, bouncing in her seat. “That’ll make you very popular.”
Sophia bursts out of the dressing room at the far end, announcing her presence—to me, anyway—and wearing a magenta and turquoise wrap dress with a southwestern motif. “If I could go back to my twenties, I’d install full length mirrors on every wall and walk around naked.” She twirls in our direction, the skirt of her dress flaring much like the flashy red salsa dress I’d poured myself into, and then cranes her neck to study the backside of the dress in her reflection.
“Don’t you listen to them, Arlene,” Rita hollers, and then she lowers her voice to a whisper. “What she needs is confidence. We need to make her feel…”
“Beautiful,” Wanda says.
“Like a force of nature,” Grandma says.
Sophia follows right on her heels. “Like she just stole someone’s man and doesn’t feel bad about it.”
We grin and chuckle and Rita nods. “All of the above,” Rita says. “Let’s do all of that.” Arlene pokes her head from out behind the curtain she keeps draped across her with a white-knuckled fist. “No one’s ever thought that of me, not even back when I considered myself sort of pretty in my twenties.”
Whoa there. That’ll get me to drop my computer in a flash. “Nuh-uh.” I’m out of my chair and across the narrow hallway, stopping a yard short so Arlene still has plenty of personal space. “In the words of Taylor Alison Swift, our Patron Saint of Female Empowerment, we don’t do that anymore, remember?”
Growing up, my mom was always on a new diet, unrelentingly critical of her body and every pound she gained, which trickled over to me. There were also several times in that stretch between middle and high school where I’d be seated at our tiny kitchen table, and Mom would walk by and deliver a harsh “observation.” So I could know where I needed to improve, she claimed—upset by my welling tears.
What it did was undercut my confidence and teach me to be small.
A lump attempts to form in my throat, so I quickly stop strolling down trauma lane and return my focus to Arlene. “Our bodies are merely our vessels, remember? They’re intricate and wondrous and house our extraordinary souls, yet they’re theleastinteresting thing about us. It’s not our purpose in life to lose weight and look pretty.”
I gently place my hand over the top of Arlene’s, not pushing her to drop the curtain, but assuring her we’ll ooh and ahh and tell her she’s gorgeous and brave. That any guy would be so lucky as to get to spend an evening with her.
Unless the guy doesn’t deserve it, then heaven help him, he’ll have the Cronies and me to deal with.
“Okay, I’ll let y’all see,” she says reluctantly, though she doesn’t release her grip.
At long last, she nods and uncurls her fingers from the curtain. I sweep it aside, revealing Arlene and her new outfit with a flourish.
