We say our goodbyes and once I’m dressed again, I make my way through the lavishly decorated waiting room and into the gorgeous reception area, replete with natural wood walls and an accent wall of live greenery behind the counter. I peruse the array of products for sale before heading to the register to check out and rebook with Hannah. I hand my finds over to the staff member assisting me (a new, unobtrusive cologne for David that almost made my knees weak from a single sniff, and some sort of funky face mask that I can’t wait to try).
“How was everything today?” the clerk asks politely, and I make a playful grimace in response.
“As painful as usual, though not as traumatic as you’d expect. There’s no one who takes care of the downstairs like Hannah, I tell you that.”
The younger man smiles, I think relieved that I didn’t give a trite “fine, thank you,” or a dreaded “awful, I need to speak to your manager,” or the awkward-for-everyone-involved, “good, and you?”
It takes a special kind of strong to talk to women about their vaginal hair all day with a straight face, and I admire him for it.
“Would you like to reschedule before you leave?” His grin is sneaking through that professional mask he’s wearing, and I say a silent cheer at making someone else smile for the second time already today. I might keep a count. Today feels like a good day. Especially because I’m about to spend some quality time with my bestie, and we spread smileseverywherewe go together. We can’t help it! Our lust for life is contagious, and people stop to tell us how much fun it looks like we’re having all the damn time.
I can’t help it that we make the conscious decision to enjoy life rather than let it grip us by the throats and make us its bitches. Well, I guess I could help it. But I won’t. Philosophy, and all that shit.
After a couple of moments of tapping away on the touch screen and keyboard, we reconfirm the dates and times of my next several appointments and I take a moment to add them into my phone’s calendar so I can see them at a glance, not that I’d ever forget an appointment—I’ve got an insane brain that remembers things like dates with no problem (even if it’s got a much smaller, much less helpful section for things like how to act in social settings, or remembering to call my grandmother more than twice a year)—but I like the visual of the appointments in my calendar.
Symmetry. Organization. Predictability.
I can breathe deeper from the thought of those things alone.
I tap my phone against the terminal, paying for my services and purchases with ApplePay, and leave a generous tip for Hannah.
I take my small paper bag of products with me and head back to the parking lot, using the Tesla app on my phone to start the AC running in my car, so it’s cool by the time I climb into my black Model S.
It took me nearly four years to save up for this beauty, and it cost me nearly a full year’s pay to buy it outright once my baby was delivered. It’s my favorite thing I own, hands down, exceptmaybemy super rare collection of live *NSYNC performances across nine DVDs.Thoseare truly priceless.
Two years later, and I still smile every time I get in my car. The sight of the crisp, black and white interior does things to me. I’m still convinced I’m not cool enough to own one of these things, but I’ll never get tired of the luxurious amenities in it.
I check the time and see that it’s close to nine AM now.Hmmm.It’ll only take me a half an hour to get to brunch, maybe ten minutes to park, so I’d get there twenty minutes early, but if I go home and change first, I’d really be cutting it close. Should’ve planned this morning out better, this is on me.
I look down at my attire—a pair of loose joggers (black, obviously), with a soft pink, stretchy Lululemon tee that somehow makes me look the socially acceptable, “good” kind of curvy instead of the “euphemism-for-overweight” kind of curvy that most other outfits leave me looking, paired with flip-flops—and decide this’ll have to do. It’s not exactly my usual brunch-wear, but at least my waist-length hair is already curled into loose waves for the day, and I applied my casual-day-makeup before I left the house, so I look somewhat presentable.
Given the choice between being on time and being early, I willalwayspick being early, even if it means I don’t look as…appropriate as I would deem I should. I normally wouldn’t go anywhere but the gym or the spa looking like this, actually. But it’s not often that my brunch dates with Christina also align with my appointments with Hannah. Trust me when I say my legs are not in a condition to be seen right now, and won’t be for several hours. So my usual weekend outfit choice of cute shorts and a blouse, or a dress that’s too playful to wear to the office are out.
It’s nothing but practicality this morning.
I sigh and shoot off a text to my bestie before I take off, to warn her of my unusual outfit selection so she can slum it with me if she so desires.
Me
Head’s up, I’m showing up like I just rolled out of bed. Don’t get all extra gorgeous on my account unless you want to.
The Bestie
[eye roll emoji] yeah, right. You probably have a full face of makeup on and some super cute day dress or some shit. I’m not falling for that. See you in an hour, bitch.
HAH you’re gonna put me to shame if you show up all glammed out, you’ve been warned.
My best friend, Chrissy, has two modes. Full mom, or full glam. Her words, not mine. She either goes ALL out, or gives zero fucks. Honestly, I wish I had her balls. I strive to meet the age-old societal beauty standards for the most part. Nobody needs to see my face without makeup. Not at brunch, not even at the gym (BB cream, mascara and brow pencil only, usually), and definitely not at work. So I have to allocate at least an hour every day (okay, it’s closer to two) to getting ready, but trust me. I’m doing the world a favor by making myself look presentable instead of unleashing this mug raw on the unsuspecting souls of Tampa Bay.
Despite the number of times I’ve made the trek across the bay for this specific restaurant, I still plug it in on my GPS before taking off. I’m of the generation raised on Google Maps and, honestly, it’s embarrassing how little I’d be able to get around without the automated route guidance. I put on my Liked Songs playlist on Spotify on shuffle, crank the volume up, and hit the road, jamming to my own little party.
By the time I get to our fave brunch spot over by one of the university campuses in Tampa, pay to park and head inside, I have exactly twenty minutes to kill, just as I expected. I browse the displays of all the random bougie accoutrements they sell in what would likely be called a gift shop in a lesser establishment, but I’m sure they have some fancy name for it here, before heading to the mimosa bar and asking the bartender to make me something fresh that they think I should try. I ask him to go a little light on the alcohol (I can’t handle much of it), and watch with a fascinated grin on my face as they add touches of syrups, fruits and mystery accents to the glass, then serve it with a gorgeous floral paper straw.
It’s one of my favorite things in the world to let artists freely create away on whatever it is I’m buying from them, and letting their light shine through on that thing they do. Even if it’s a mimosa. It could be a chef, a tattoo artist, a woodworker that I’m buying a trinket from, I love to see their passion come through, and I appreciate the knowledge and expertise they bring to their craft. I almost never deem to think that my opinion on how it should be done is more important than their experience (unless it’s raw onions on my food—that’s where I draw the line), and I’m almost always pleasantly surprised by what I get in return.
After all, when clients come to my marketing firm for our expertise, I don’t let them tell me what elements to include in the campaign, what copy to use in the ads, or what metrics to optimize its performance by. No. That’sourspecialty, our know-how they’re paying for. We review their needs and recommend a solution. That’s whatwedo. I view artistic and culinary experiences in the same light.
I take the glass gladly, kind of sad to ruin the beautiful display of it by taking a sip, but I definitely can’t wait for this cutie to hit my gullet. I take the first draw from the straw (surprisingly sturdy, super cute—the smart choice, responsibleandfunctional, this straw is everything I aim to be in life), andohsweet marshmallows, is that delish.
