The Sleeping Beauty Proposal

by Sarah Strohmeyer

  Needless to say, your noble desire to remain mum on inquiries regarding our nonexistent marital status has, unfortunately, caused a bit of confusion/anxiety here, and though I have explained to my fiancée that you are just being supportive of my career, this explanation is fast becoming insufficient in light of the numerous e-mails/phone calls/telegrams and faxes congratulating me on my upcoming wedding to you.

  I strongly suggest that, should anyone ask, you simply state that, no, I did not and never will ask you to be my wife.

  Also, I am at a loss to understand this August 20 wedding rumor. Was this your idea? If so, I can’t imagine what it was that possessed you to mention a date. You need to disabuse friends and colleagues of this notion forthwith.

  Lastly, the ring. I find this thoroughly audacious. If your purchase of an engagement-type ring (I do not remember you owning one before) was meant to somehow mock me, then I suggest you remove it immediately. Weak attempts at sarcasm or, worse, desperate attempts to draw attention, do not, Genie, put you in the best of lights.

  I trust you will proceed accordingly,

  Hugh.

  P.S. On a side note, the foreign rights to HOPEFUL have been sold to Thailand and the Republic of Fiji Islands for a whopping total of 40 countries. I know you are as excited as I am.

  TO: hugh@hughspencer.com FROM: genie.michaels@thoreaucollege.edu SUBJECT: RE: What the ???

  I might be wearing an engagement ring. I might be getting married August 20.

  But who said anything about me marrying you?

  Life does go on, you know.

  Genie

  P.S. Congrats on the foreign rights. You have no idea how that thrills me to my very core.

  Chapter Twelve

  Let me just say this: I am loving the ring.

  I’ve never felt so pretty and special, as if overnight I’ve become a princess. As if suddenly I’m a gorgeous, glamorous woman who deserves nothing but the best. I don’t know why I didn’t buy it years ago. Every woman should have at least one.

  And the ring is so motivating. It even gets me to wake up early Saturday morning to meet the trainer Lucy arranged for me at Joe’s Gym. Do I want to wake up and be abused? No. I want to sleep in and hang around in sweats all day.

  But then I see my ring and remember how it is starting to change my life, and I get out of bed. Drink a cup of foul-tasting coffee from the Rite Aid coffeemaker (Patty’s right, I really do need an upgrade), pack a bag, and head down to Joe’s.

  The joint is hopping at 5:45 when I stagger through the double glass doors. Clearly these people have never cottoned on to the concept of a nightlife. They are running. They are spinning. They are chatting as they run and cross-train.They are smiling, for God’s sake. Don’t they realize it’s six A.M.?

  “Hi there!”

  Oh, Lord, save us. It’s Kip Boynton in a Joe’s Gym unitard. I met Kip the trainer during a six-week blizzard of fitness fanaticism when I let my former neighbor Robin talk me into taking a kick-boxing class with her, an event that, apparently, they still discuss in the weight room. (Though I did not kick the bulletin board off the wall. That was a total exaggeration. It simply fell when I happened to come near it.)

  “Ready to become a buff bride?” Kip slaps his hands. Slap! “Hold on. Let me see that gorgeous engagement ring.”

  Okay. This is when I discover if the ring can withstand the scrutiny of strangers, not just my friends or expert metallurgists like Nick. If it passes here, at Joe’s Gym, I might very well summon the courage to wear it to work.That is, if I can fabricate a plausible backstory of its origins. (I’m thinking Hugh’s great grandmother Serena from Cornwall who bequeathed it to Hugh’s transsexual uncle Waldo, who never had much use for it, aside from the occasional Mardi Gras party.)

  Also, along with a backstory, I’ll be needing a manicure.

  I’ve become very self-conscious about my ragged nails now that I understand that, according to Nick, I’ve got beautiful fingers. In the past, manicures always seemed so self-indulgent to my Yankee soul. I couldn’t imagine paying a total stranger sixty bucks to push back my cuticles and polish my nails when I could do it at home for free. (Though I never do.) But now my perspective might be changing.

  I find I’m holding my breath as Kip inspects the cubic zirconia in its antique rhodium-treated brass setting. Will he notice it’s glass? Will he notice it cost less than his sneakers?

  No. He doesn’t!

  “Donatella.” He calls over to the peppy girl behind the counter. “Come look at Genie’s engagement ring. It is Genie, right, from kickboxing?”

  I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.

  "Holy ... !” Donatella stops herself from a full swear. “That is beautiful. Did your fiancé design it?”

  I smile like a dope. Less said the better is my philosophy.

  “I bet it’s a hand-me-down, say?”

  This goes on for a few minutes, them speculating on the ring and where it came from and how much Hugh must love me to have given me such a huge diamond in such a gorgeous setting. I wish Nick were here so I could rub his face in it.

  Another fit and peppy person comes to ooh and aah and then Kip notices it’s 6:03.We are behind schedule.

  I have no idea what my mother did in her day to get ready for her wedding. But I doubt she had a man in a unitard with his foot on her back as she executed knee push-ups in ten-rep intervals. Did she do forty chair dips, several sets of double crunches? Was she on the treadmill, ratcheting up the program to HIIT (High Intensity—don’t ask me why there’s an extra I or a T ?)

  Kip won’t let me attempt the dumbbells, not until I’ve lost a few pounds. He recommends ten-pounders. “Nothing drastic,” he says. (I have to inform him that—outside fitness fantasyland—ten pounds to the average woman in her midthirties is, indeed, drastic.) Then he provides me with your run-of-the-mill no-fun diet and an exercise program that, according to my cursory brief glance, requires me to visit the gym with disturbing frequency, like every day.

  I’m not sure if I’m getting married or joining the marines. I’m reaching the conclusion there’s not much of a difference.

  “We don’t have much time, but I promise you, Genie, that come August twentieth you will be fitter and sexier than you are today,” he pledges.

  Sexier.You know, I’m getting a bit tired of the message that as well as being smart and financially prudent and well-groomed and a good housekeeper, as a new bride I’ve got to be sexy, too. I mean, men don’t get this kind of treatment. Men are praised for being hard workers, savvy negotiators, sage investors, or “real family men”—as if that’s a rare, esteemed quality. (When was the last time someone observed that a mother was a “real family woman”?)

  I haven’t read anything in Cosmo about “Groom Boot Camp.” Fathers don’t take their affianced sons aside and privately advise them to drop a few pounds, maybe six-pack the old abs in order to keep the bride happy.

  Still, hearing Kip say this, I feel that I am on the road to sexy. Granted, it’s a very steep road and I’ve gotten a late start. For instance, there’s my personal stash of big, cotton underwear at home. Comfortable, sure, but not exactly man bait.

  The thing is, I buy bras for ease of wear, not for how they lift my breasts or squeeze my cleavage. And—yes, this might come as a shocker—I have never once bought a bra or panty with a man in mind. Here’s why: Men don’t have to wear the damned things for fourteen hours a day, whereas I do. Let them deal with scratchy lace against their crotch and see how they like it.

  My lack of underwear finesse is further driven home when I arrive in the women’s locker room to shower and change just as the Advanced Spinning class has let out.All around me are women with flat abs and high tushes prancing about in black or red thongs and—though I try not to look—an unnatural lack of hair. I mean, most of us have hair there, don’t we? But not these women.They’re practically bald.

  How do they get so bald? This mi
ght be the Brazilian thing I’ve been reading about. Connie goes Brazilian. I am privy to this information because she and I have the same hairdresser (Melody at Stairway to Style, fantastic!) and I’ve heard stories. Wild stories, like the fact that Connie gets a design. Sometimes it’s a heart or a simple triangle. One Christmas it was a merry bell. In the summer, Melody (who actually has to perform these Brazilian waxes on all shapes and sizes and ages of people) says most women go floral, their preference being a daisy.

  A daisy.

  As I try to make myself and all my au naturel hairiness inconspicuous in the corner by the inconvenient lockers, I decide Connie’s daisy is just a symptom of a larger disease.The Aggressive Sexual Woman’s Disease. It’s not only the daisy, it’s also that Connie keeps her body fat to less than twenty percent, that she has maxed out her Victoria’s Secret credit card and owns a library full of books and DVDs on how to please a man, how to bring him to the point of arousal and back so that he’s on his knees, begging and crying for relief.

  In fact, I would accuse Connie of being Hugh’s mystery woman if she hadn’t admitted to me once that while she envied my relationship with a stable, successful, mature man, she, personally, could never date a “thin, pasty white, slightly effeminate” Brit. Apparently, Connie is so much of a woman that she requires someone with vast stores of testosterone—big, strong men with muscles who engage in daily physical labor.

  “Real men,” as she put it, “built for insemination.”

  Like Nick, I think, my neck instantly going hot again.Why in the world would I have thought of him?

  “Genie?”

  I stop musing about Nick and look up to find Tracy Gridell naked along with two perfectly formed globes that, in some plastic surgery circles, must pass for mammary glands. These have to be upgrades because Tracy and I went through junior and high school gym class together and though my memory is not the best, I am positive she never sported basketballs instead of breasts.

  “Genie Michaels? I haven’t seen you since forever. How are you?”

  I would like to say that I pride myself on being beyond the realm of pettiness, but those breasts are my tipping point. In a moment of impulse I know I will regret later, I hold up my hand and say, “How am I? I’m engaged, that’s how I am!”

  Squeeeal!

  That is so satisfying, that squeal. I hate to admit it.

  Tracy practically tears off my hand, inspecting the ring.This is even more nerve-wracking than Kip’s review downstairs because with her new plastic anatomy, I bet Tracy is an expert in all things false.

  “Oh, my God. It’s gorgeous.Who?”

  See, now, this is where maybe I should shut up. Though, of course, I don’t.

  “Hugh. Hugh Spencer. You know”—I actually flutter my eyelids—“the author of Hopeful, Kansas? We’ve been going out for four years so, whew, finally, right? August twentieth. That’s the big day.”

  Tracy has no idea who a Hugh Spencer is or what or where is Hopeful, Kansas. Nor does she care because I’ve just said something that could affect her life and, as we all recognize, a conversation improves dramatically when it’s about ourselves rather than the other person.

  “You’re getting married in August? Do you have a house yet?”

  Just when I’m about to get a handle on this engagement thing, she throws me a curveball. A house. Everyone wants me to buy a house.

  “Because I’m a real estate agent now with Hennicker Realty, so if you’re looking, give me a call. I can get you a terrific deal even in this seller’s market.” Tracy reaches in her gym bag and produces a business card. Sure enough, it says Tracy William-son, Hennicker Realty. She can now write off this month’s gym membership.

  “Williamson? Did you get married?”

  “Already divorced.What a cliché, huh? Get divorced, become a Realtor. Anyway, that’s the way the cookie crumbles. Hey, how’s Todd?”

  Todd. I’d forgotten Tracy had a huge crush on him in high school. “He’s okay.”

  “Still single?” Tracy drops her towel and slips into a hot pink silk thong. She, too, is bald. In fact, she’s smooth and curvy and white all over. I feel like some lice-ridden cavewoman in comparison.

  “Uh-huh.” I wrap my own towel more securely as I step into my flowered Fruit of the Loom cotton briefs.Tracy shoots a glance at them, a glance that says volumes.

  “He’s in home remodeling now,” I say, pretending that I’ve come to terms with my Fruit of the Looms. “He’s been working on a great house by the golf course, on Peabody.”

  Slathering on moisturizer,Tracy says, "Not the Victorian two-family with the stained-glass windows.”

  “That’s it.” Surreptitiously, I bring out my white cotton bra (a meager 36C) and try snapping it in the back.

  “But that went on the market yesterday.”

  My bra snaps off. “What?”

  “If it’s the one I’m thinking about. The one with the poplars in the back.The one abutting the golf course, right?”

  “That’s it.” Could it be for sale so soon? Todd didn’t say anything.

  “Yup. I swear it popped up on the MLS listed for about five hundred thousand dollars. And, you know, there was a note on it about needing some work. Guess that’s the renovation Todd’s been doing, huh?”

  The notion of yet another dream house once again slipping through my fingers to someone who doesn’t appreciate it is maddening. My life is one long stretch on the bench watching other lives go by. Just when will the coach pick me to play?

  Hold on. Isn’t this the whole point of what I’m doing—to get my butt off the bench and play? Why, yes it is!

  "I want to buy it.” I can’t believe I just said that.

  Tracy slaps her hands on her narrow hips, her uncovered pink nipples pointing at me accusatorily. "Are you serious?”

  "I am. Only ...” Oh, man. I wish I knew if my parents were going to give me the money or not. “I’m not sure I can rake up the deposit.”

  “A hundred grand is what you’ll need. That is, if you’re not going balloon—and I definitely recommend in this economy that you not go balloon.”

  It’s hard to face those breasts and not go balloon.

  Retrieving my bra, I say, “It was just a thought. I really love the place, is all.”

  “Then you should get your money together and buy it. I can’t tell you what a steal it is at this price.” She comes closer, bringing with her clouds of lavender and rose. “I shouldn’t be telling you this since Todd’s involved, but the rumor is that the woman who owns the house has a boy toy out in California. She hates Boston and wants to be rid of all memories of it and her ex as quick as possible.Which is code for you know what.”

  I know what. This means Cecily Blake wants cash and that she might be willing to drop the price if she gets it.Todd said she was running out of money, but a boy toy is better. Much more motivational.

  “So, think about it and if you do decide to act, call me. But act fast because this will be gone by Sunday.You can take that to the bank.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It is pathetic that this is my first visit, ever, to Victoria’s Secret.

  Thirtysomething years old, almost forty, and I’ve never been. Why? Because every time I scrounge up the courage to walk in, there is some guy in a raincoat by the door looking both awkward and kind of, well, turned on, as he ogles women picking through the central display of lace-etched thongs. And no, he is not a bouncer. (Although, it’s an idea worth considering.)

  I keep thinking of all those male fantasies (delusions) or that movie, St. Elmo’s Fire, where Judd Nelson goes to buy Ally Sheedy some fancy lingerie and he ends up getting extremely personal attention from a clerk who has just added a whole new dimension to customer care. I just love male screenwriters and their absurd imaginations.

  Okay, so the creep by the door is probably a boyfriend or a husband, but how can I be sure? What if he’s your garden-variety perv who gets his thrills looking at women picking throu
gh underwear? This is why I don’t go to Victoria’s Secret.

  But that was before. Now, with my ring, I visibly belong to some other man and I am not to be messed with. (Hands off, pervert by the door.) As I walk past him, I make a big display of my left hand so that the glints from my fake diamond practically blind him with their supermarital powers. Take that! And that! And that!

  After I successfully kapow him with cubic zirconia, he doesn’t dare stare at me. He has to look away until a dumpy woman approaches, displaying for his approval a long, high-necked nightgown from what must be the “Victorian” end of Victoria’s Secret. So ends the male fantasy.

  Let’s see. Where to start? First I have to figure out what I’m doing here with all these sexually adventurous twentysomethings who think nothing of picking up $60 leopard-print, gel-filledVery Sexy push-up bras. I’m not sure they’re getting adequate support with those. They’ll live to regret it when they hit middle age and find they’ve become dependent on the gel.

  But I am getting distracted. I must concentrate on the business at hand. My goal is to achieve a complete underwear overhaul, to execute the kind of purge a real bride would undertake in preparation for a sex-filled honeymoon. It’s a daunting task, eschewing my high-waisted cottons, and I’m not entirely positive that my body, which is beginning to mount a full-scale protest of this morning’s physical activity, can pull off something called a “flutter thong” or a “satin lace-up tanga.”

  Oh, what the hell. Why am I sweating this? This is not brain surgery. Soon I am randomly gathering anything in a size 5— thongs, which I will have to resist constantly yanking downward; plunge bras; “keyhole panties” (whatever they are); and a couple of baby-dolls.