Soon, the uptight ladies are gone. In their place, some carefree, tipsy alter-egos emerge, ready to unwind and talk shit. They’re guzzling wine like it’s going out of style. They’re eating snacks like they haven’t seen food in two weeks.
I’m totally here for all of it.
“Okay, let’s hear it,” I say, folding my feet under my butt as I sit on the couch in between Carol and Abigail. “Which one of the men is the biggest sociopath?”
My icebreaker question is met with crickets for several beats, but then the ladies trade looks among themselves and erupt into laughter.
Tammy grins, squeezing her butt onto the arm of the couch and refilling Abigail’s drink. “Okay, Iknowyou have some stories to tell. Spill the tea.”
“It’s Dale,” Carol blurts out.
Belinda gasps. “How dare you say that about my husband?!” But at the same time, she’s struggling to not crack up.
Abigail is nodding at Tammy. “He asks for a receipt every time the poor woman picks up a loaf of bread.”
“And if he ever makes another comment about me needing to ‘watch my figure’, I think I’m going to ninja kick him in the throat,” Greta mutters around a bite of mozzarella.
“I think you should do it,” Carol says gravely, licking cream cheese off her fingers.
“You definitely should do it,” Abigail says. Then she peeks over at her friend. “Sorry, Bel.”
Belinda shrugs with resignation, scraping the guacamole off her plate with a chicken nugget. “Hm. Come to think of it, my husband could probably use a little roughing up.”
I sit cross-legged on the carpet, within arm’s reach of the snacks, as I laugh and laugh. It’s like now that these rich housewives are in a safe place, they’re quickly transforming back into the independent, vibrant women they really are—under all that gross suppression. I love it.
After two hours, their inhibitions are completely missing. Belinda and Carol are singing show tunes with Monica and Patty at the top of their lungs. Abigail is demonstrating CPR techniques on one of Alba’s decorative throw pillows. And Greta is having a tell-all therapy session with Tammy and my mom, spilling the ugly truth about her husband’s drained 401k.
When I start talking about my T-shirt business, the girls gather around me, eager to get a look at the products on my website.
“It’s still sort of under construction,” I tell them, feeling the need to make excuses as we click around my online shop. “So don’t judge it too harshly.”
Belinda looks hesitant when she asks, “Can I give you my honest feedback?”
“Sure,” I say, forcing a bright smile even as my insides cramp nervously. I know they say that constructive criticism is a good thing. But I’ve never been convinced.
To the world, my business may seem like a bunch of silly T-shirts, but I consider myself an artist, and as such, I can get a bit sensitive when it comes to my art.
Holding my breath, I listen for what Belinda will say.
“I really like your designs,” she begins. “They’re quirky and hilarious and a little bit naughty. But I’d never be confident enough to wear them to the store or while I’m out running errands. Not all of us are blessed with your level of self-assurance, Jules.”
My stomach sinks. I feel a sense of doom coming over me.
Now that I think about it, my friends do buy my T-shirts and they show my website to every person they come across. But I never really see the girls wearing my designs out and about. It never occurred to me that the average woman might be intimidated by the snarky comments printed on my shirts.
Is Belinda right? Is my success capped by the fact that my products are too risqué for the general public?
Meanwhile, the woman’s smile widens. “But if they came in bigger sizes, I would totally wear them as an oversized sleep shirt.”
Greta hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. That would be such a cozy, PJ vibe, huh?”
Abigail points at my screen. “I really like this design, but it takes a lot of confidence to walk around the neighborhood wearing a picture of a naked woman with a lettuce over her crotch that says,Go get that lettuce watered, bitch.”
Carol nods along. “But as a funny T-shirt to wear to bed? That would make more sense. Sort of like an inside joke between my husband and me.”
Staring at my phone screen, I look at my designs with new eyes.
I tap the corner of my mouth with my index finger. I get what the women are saying. “Hmm. I’ll take your ideas under advisement.”
