by Beau, Jodie
In most areas of my life I was a rule breaker. But when it came to fashion, I took those taboos seriously. I did not want to be one of those people pictured in the Don’t section of the fashion magazines with a black line across my eyes. But being in my room and looking at the bed, I suddenly didn’t care about clothes anymore. I felt like I was caught in a tailspin of dread.
I grimaced and told her I was going to blow dry my hair. I needed to get out of that bedroom because I was starting to feel like my chest was caving in. To think I slept in that bed with my husband only hours before and had no idea he didn’t love me anymore; it didn’t make me feel so hot. I tried to be strong about all of it and not fall onto the floor in a big heap of patheticism (hey, it’s in the Urban Dictionary – look it up if you don’t believe me). But I couldn’t face the room. Not yet. So if Hope wanted to dress me up like a homeless vagabond, I’d let her – as long as I didn’t have to go back in that room.
Hope appeared at the bathroom door just as I was finishing with my hair and handed me a black and white polka-dot bikini and a yellow bandeau sundress. I would never wear a halter under a bandeau top. It’s a conflict of interest at best and a tan line disaster at worst! But I could probably put up with that minor discrepancy if she had picked a bikini that actually fit me.
“I haven’t worn this bikini in years,” I told her. “There’s no way it’ll fit.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Why is it still in your drawer then, hoarder?”
Sometimes I had a hard time getting rid of things, especially clothes. I seemed to develop a sentimental attachment. The bikini in question was special to me because I bought it for my college senior year Spring Break trip to Cocoa Beach. That was the last trip I’d taken without Caleb and the bikini represented freedom, fun, youth and pina coladas. I bet the fact that I saved this particular bikini for all these years, but couldn’t even tell you what swimsuits I wore during our honeymoon in Cabo would prove quite interesting to a psychotherapist.
I smelled the bikini top to see if I could catch a whiff of suntan lotion. Nope. It was long gone, along with those perky boobs, my tongue ring and my delusional optimism.
I shrugged sheepishly. “Sometimes I like to pull it out and reminisce about being young and skinny.” I handed it back to her.
“It’s stretchy.” She pushed the bikini back into my hands. “Put it on.” It was an order, not a suggestion.
Ten minutes later I was prancing around in front of the full-length mirror in the bathroom. It fit! There was some extra softness around my hips and a mini-muffin top above the bikini bottom, but it fit. What a boost to my self-esteem!
“How’s it going in there?” Hope asked from the other side of the door.
“Great!” I yelled back. “I’m Rebecca Dunbar-ing!”
Rebecca Dunbar was the wife of one of Caleb’s coworkers. She had been a cheerleader for an NFL team back in the nineties and couldn’t seem to let go of it. She had a gigantic picture in her living room of herself in her cheerleading uniform from back then and she thought it was cute to burst into cheers at company get-togethers. Her husband told Caleb that she wears her uniform around the house and literally cheers him on during foreplay. And rumor has it that she showed up to her son’s first t-ball game in full uniform, pom poms and all, and did a complete routine on the sidelines. Basically she is the joke of the entire firm. I’ve told Hope all about her; about how I actually feel sorry for her. She’s got a good husband, two cute kids and a home in Greenwich, Connecticut, but she’s so desperate to hold on to her past that she’s clinging to her cheerleading uniform as if it’s the only life jacket left on a sinking ship.
I guess you could say the polka-dot bikini was my new lifejacket, but that was okay with me. Unlike Rebecca Dunbar, I actually was on a sinking ship, and I was just glad I had something to keep me afloat.
CHAPTER THREE
When Hope finished packing my overnight bag and reserved us a rental car on her iPad, we hopped into a cab and headed straight for my haven – also known as Barney’s New York.
I didn’t always feel this good about shopping. I’ll never forget my first time in a top-of-the-line designer store (which shall remain nameless, as I don’t need a lawsuit on my hands on top of a divorce).
We’d been married about two years. Caleb was still a newbie junior banker at the firm. We were invited to the housewarming party of one of the senior bankers who had bought a home in a wealthy neighborhood in the Town of North Hempstead. Yes, the word Town has a capital T. At this point in his career, Caleb was still doing a lot of minute tasks such as making coffee and going on lunch runs, and I was still serving martinis to “suits” during Happy Hour. We were basically your average struggling young couple, but that didn’t mean I wanted to look the part.
I bought a dress from Victoria’s Secret that cost $90. This was the most expensive piece of clothing I had ever owned up to that point. I felt amazing when it came in the mail and I put it on. I looked like a goddess in the short, shimmery, backless number. I put on black thigh-highs, the kind with a seam up the back, and black stilettos and splurged on a manicure and a blow-out at the salon. Caleb looked at me like I was the most beautiful girl in the world. He told me how proud he was to have a trophy wife as he linked his arm with mine, and we walked into the elegant, sprawling home in Manhasset.
To make a long story short, I’ll say I learned some important lessons in Manhasset.
Lesson #1 – There is a big, HUGE, difference between the Town Of North Hempstead with a capital T and plain old Hempstead, and one must never make the mistake of using the shorter form. Because, you see, the Town of North Hempstead was a wealthy area filled with the kinds of houses that have their own parking lots. And apparently, Hempstead, on the other hand, was a completely separate town in Nassau County where there was gang activity, government-funded housing and an Old Navy.
Lesson #2 – There is no lower scum on Earth than a waitress. I probably would’ve earned more respect from Caleb’s coworkers if I had told them I was contributing to the household expenses by hiding our neighbor’s dead body in my closet and cashing in her social security checks. Can you believe one of the wives asked me if I could grab her a drink from the bar? “To make you feel more at home, dear.” It was after this party when Caleb told me it would be a good idea if I quit my job because he would hate for one of his colleagues to show up at the bar while I was working. After feeling mortified at the party, I had to agree with him.
Lesson #3 – The shoes are everything. The dress is not important. I could have worn a dress from Goodwill and claimed it was vintage couture, and no one would have known the difference. It was the shoes that mattered. Shoes were the topic of several conversations: the shoes at the party, the shoes on the runways, the shoes in the tabloids, the shoes on the red carpet. Then someone asked me who I was wearing. Who! Not what, but who! Apparently Payless is not a designer? I decided then and there that I would never be out-shoed again. From that point on, I would have the best shoes in every room I stepped into, and that was a promise.
A week later I took the subway to the Upper East Side for some shopping on Madison Avenue. This is where the situation occurred.
I went into the designer-who-shall-remain-nameless’ store. The sales associates were a bunch of girls around my age who wore cardigan sweaters and geek-chic glasses. They all had their boobs pushed up to their chins and had very thick, golden highlights in their dark hair, the kind of highlights that made it look like their heads were striped – a trend I am so glad finally went out of style.
The fact that none of them would meet my eyes made the whole scenario a bit creepy. I began to wonder if I was on the set of Bitches of the Corn Part V. Or that I’d accidentally walked in on a top-secret cloning experiment. I decided to make my selection quickly before I, too, was kidnapped and cloned. I could do the glasses and cardigans, but I’d honestly rather die than have striped hair.
I decided on a pair of shoes I wa
nted to try on. I picked up the floor model and looked around for help, but the sales associates wouldn’t help me. They wouldn’t make eye contact with me. They acted like I was invisible, but I knew they weren’t blind because as soon as someone else walked in the door there were boob-on-boob collisions as they fought to see who could greet the new customer first. I knew for sure it was intentional when I spoke to one and she stared at the wall behind me for a few seconds before she deliberately turned and walked away. All right fine, so maybe Pollyanna-style pigtails and an American Eagle hoodie wasn’t the best way to dress for a shopping trip with the big dogs, but I was still a person and didn’t deserve that kind of treatment. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when the salesladies were mean to her.
I left, discouraged. With the lyrics of Reba McIntyre’s “Fancy” running through my head, I cried all the way to Dylan’s Candy Bar. This definitely called for gummy bears.
Once I managed to get myself together, I headed back out there. I didn’t want to, believe me, but those girls at the Manhasset party had made me feel like trash and then the clones at designer-who-shall-remain-nameless made me feel even worse. I needed to get on the same playing field before everyone in Manhattan was laughing at me and I was on eBay looking for pig’s blood.
I stood outside Barney’s, took a deep breath, touched the extra stash of gummies in my pocket for reassurance, put on my bravest face and walked in ... to heaven on Earth! Everywhere I went, from handbags, to shoes, to the make-up counters in the basement, I encountered happy, helpful people. This time I felt like Julia Roberts in the “Pretty Woman” scene of Pretty Woman. I walked out of there with both hands filled with shopping bags, and my very first pair of Christian Louboutins (which are worth every penny, by the way).
When I was out on the street I threw my hat into the air like Mary Tyler Moore and hailed a cab home. Just kidding. I wasn’t even wearing a hat. But it would have been pretty cool, huh? Looking back, I really wish I had worn a hat that day.
In case you’re wondering – as I’m sure anyone would be – no, I didn’t go back to the designer-who-shall-remain-nameless to wave my bags in their faces because the bags were heavy and I’m quite lazy. But I never did go in there again.
“Roxie!” Yes, they know me by name in the shoe department. I know it’s totally cliché, but when I said I’d never be out-shoed again, I meant it!
“Carly!” I replied. No, we didn’t do air kisses or anything preposterous like that.
“We need some FMPs,” Hope told her.
I guess being married for so long I was a little out of the loop on the sexy acronyms. “What are those?” I asked.
“Fuck Me Pumps,” Hope whispered.
Carly gave Hope a knowing smile. “Those are very high heels,” she told me. “Higher than your 120s.” She was referring to the height of the heel in millimeters. For me, 120s were as high as I could go without moving into drag queen territory. Higher heels might be fun for dress-up, but if I was going to spend hundreds of dollars on a pair of shoes, I needed something more practical, something that didn’t make anyone wonder if I was packing a penis in my skinny jeans.
Carly showed us a pair of FMPs in red satin. They looked more like DQPs if you asked me. I tried them on just to pacify them, but I decided to buy hot pink patent peep-toes in my usual 120mm heel instead. Yes, hot pink stilettos are absolutely practical, thank you very much for your concern.
As I headed up to pay for the shoes, I got the worst feeling in my stomach. What if Caleb cancelled the credit cards? The scene flashed before my eyes. Me at the counter. Carly telling me the credit card declined. Me pulling another card out of my wallet. Declined. Another one. Declined. Declined. Declined. Carly with a pair of scissors, cutting up all of my cards and calling security over to escort me from the building. All of the other trophy wives taking pictures of me on their iPhones and posting them to Twitter and Instagram – Hashtag:pathetic.
I felt my face burning, my brow sweating, my breaths were becoming fast and shallow, and I thought I might pass out.
“You okay, Roxie?” Carly asked from the cash register. She looked concerned.
“Um, yeah,” I said. I sounded weak. I handed her a credit card, held my breath and closed my eyes while the blood drained from my face.
“You gonna sign, hun?” she asked patiently.
I snapped out of it and saw the signature line on the credit card screen. It went through. I finally exhaled with relief. My husband wasn’t a total scumbag after all. I mean, yes he was. But he wasn’t a scumbag who cancelled my credit cards.
We picked up the rental car when we were done at Barney’s. Hope had reserved a convertible because “Why the fuck not?” Right?
I sent Caleb a text to let him know we were headed to the Hamptons for the night.
My phone rang almost immediately.
“Hi,” I said softly, a little scared he was going to yell at me for running away from our problems. I had a little nagging voice in the back of my head already doing as much. But he didn’t.
“Hello, darling.” He sounded totally normal, like the whole divorce discussion had never taken place.
“You got my text?”
“Yes. I think it’s a great idea for you to get away. I’ll reschedule the papers to be delivered tomorrow then. You two have a nice time.”
“Um, okay. Thanks.” It felt so awkward.
“Just be careful with the money, Roxie,” he warned. “Once it’s divided up, it doesn’t replenish itself anymore.”
Hmm. What the hell did that even mean? For some reason his comment made me think of lizards and how they can supposedly grow back their tails if they ever fall off. Why their tails would fall off in the first place, though, I’m not sure. “Okay.”
“Have a nice time, dear. I’ll send you the email with the details as soon as I finish and we’ll talk more when you get home.”
This whole thing was just too weird.
I hung up the phone and got into the passenger side of the convertible. I resisted the urge to hop over the door without opening it because I’m not eighteen.
We wrapped Boho scarves around our heads to protect our hair from the wind, put on our huge sunglasses and took off – Thelma and Louise style.
CHAPTER FOUR
I’d say we picked a great day for a ride to the Hamptons, but that would be like saying my husband picked a great day for a divorce, and I don’t want to go that far. But the sun was shining, traffic was light and the A/C was kickin’ (we put the top up about ten minutes into the ride). Hope put on her beach playlist and “Summer Girls” by LFO helped me find a brighter disposition.
“Now tell me what happened,” Hope said. “Start from the beginning.”
I sighed, reluctant to be ripped out of my LFO-induced reverie to relive the crapfest that took place in the bathroom this morning (no pun intended). “Caleb was in the bathroom shaving, and I woke up and had to pee,” I started. “So I went into the bathroom and, as I was peeing, he says-”
She held up her right hand and interrupted me. “Wait! You mean you were peeing right in front of him?”
“Um …” I paused as I questioned the behavior. “Yes?”
“Oh hell no!” she said, looking disgusted. “Do you always pee in front of him?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “No, not always. But he was in the closest bathroom.”
“So!” she yelled. “We only have one bathroom, but we don’t use it at the same time!”
She shared her apartment with a roommate, J.D. J.D. was an aspiring actress who was working for a chauffeur company until she got her big Broadway role. She’d been an aspiring actress since Hope met her about ten years ago. We sometimes joked with her about how long she would continue to call herself an “aspiring actress” before she started saying she was a chauffeur. But we were just teasing. I respected people who refused to give up on their dreams.
“You guys aren’t married,” I said in my defense.
“We do hook up sometimes when we’re both single,” she said with a smirk. This did not surprise me. Hope is not a lesbian, but she is very open about her sexual adventures, of which there are many. It’s not that she’s sleazy, but she is perpetually single and that’s just what single people do. They have a lot of sex. With a lot of different people. If this was 2002, I’d describe Hope as the Samantha to my Charlotte.
“Hooking up sometimes is totally different,” I told her. “Hooking up sometimes means you still shave first.”
She looked at me in horror. The car swerved a little. “You don’t?”
I crossed my arms in front of my chest, suddenly feeling very defensive. “I do. Sometimes. When I remember.”
“Do you wax?”
“On special occasions.”
“Do special occasions happen at least once a month?”
“No. More like once a year. Maybe.”
She shook her head slowly. “I’m a little disappointed in you. Do you think Holly Golightly went around sporting a cooch afro like she was doing seventies porn?”
I did my best to stifle a giggle but it snuck out as a squeak. “I do not have a cooch afro!” I squeaked again. “Nobody has a seventies porn cooch afro anymore. Didn’t you hear? Cooch afros were done away with through evolution, just like the human tail.” I was no longer able to contain my laughter, so I let it all out.
She didn’t look amused. “Is that so?” she asked, rhetorically. “But on a more serious note, I do hope in your future relationships you will try to maintain some of your dignity. No man needs to see you pee, and no man or woman should have to light a flare to find their way around your hoo-hah. Now go on. You were peeing …”
“Right. And without even turning off the razor or looking at me, he says he started the process for a divorce and I would be served papers this afternoon. Just like that!”
“Hmm …” she rubbed her chin in thought. “Have you guys been fighting lately?”