by Cathy Alter
“They are total fainéants,” said my friend Andrew when I phoned him for help with the guest list. In the Fabergé Organics shampoo commercial of D.C., Andrew had a friend who had a friend who knew this gang.
“What’s that mean?” I asked.
“It means they’re a bunch of do-nothings,” he said.
Maybe so, but the thought of dealing with them again was definitely doing something to me. I flashed back to my Index of Dread list. At least I was planning to hold the party at a place with flushing toilets.
I returned to the stress article in Self. “To grow as a person, it’s important to challenge yourself with things that aren’t always easy or familiar,” remarked Jack Gorman, an M.D. and professor of psychiatry who was quoted in the story.
Since the whole experiment was about growth and improvement, I wondered if my anxiety was evidence that I hadn’t progressed further along. Even though I felt like I was taking all the right steps, it was still hard for me to leave my comfortable world and enter one that might be dangerous and unknown. But then it dawned on me that Bruno had been the troll under the bridge, and I had already paid that toll and moved on. Compared to him, Crazy Larry et al were just some pebbles in my shoes, annoyances to shake out on the side of the road.
But not just yet. I composed a breezy email invitation to a list of sixty people. To ensure the John Barleycorns of the camping world wouldn’t sabotage the surprise, I sent them a separate follow-up email. “I hope you come!” I bullshitted. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Next, I made a shopping list. In a special After-Dark issue, Glamour devoted almost half the real estate on its cover to a feature called “Look & Feel Like the Sexiest Woman in the Room: The Clothes, the Makeup, the Hair, the Confidence.” The other half of the cover starred Natalie Portman, hand on hip, wearing a filmy Matthew Williamson goddess dress. The M and O of the magazine’s title were hidden behind Natalie’s unusually fluffed-up hairdo, and I wondered if “Glaur,” who was a minor female character in Norse mythology and a synonym for mud or slime, was some kind of subliminal message to readers.
Inside, I found a story called “Party Prep,” where writer Stephanie Huszar got Nicky Hilton to reveal “how she always manages to look so right.” Four evil-queen mirrors right out of Snow White framed a glimmering tidbit of Hilton’s wisdom.
1. HER HAIR STRATEGY: A LITTLE EXTRA VOLUME
Usually, Hilton just grabbed a bobby pin to pull her bangs back and “make a tiny bump.” But when she wanted to make a splash, Huszar divulged, “she’s also game for tossing in a few hot rollers.” There was a photo of Hilton, perched on a gleaming vanity dressed in a lilac slip, rolling a section of brunette hair around a pink sponge curler.
I didn’t have long enough hair to roll and, thank God, no bangs with which to make tiny bumps. (Seriously, what does this even look like?) So I looked into the next mirror on the page.
2. HER MAKEUP M.O.: IT’S ALL ABOUT THE EYES
Hilton’s preferred method, at least in this photograph, was to slick on purple metallic eye shadow in a shade also favored by most hair bands of the 1980s. Then came the black eyeliner. Lots of it (around the insides, too).
I had to admit, the color combination made Hilton’s eyes really pop. Maybe she was onto something with this purple. Because of my green eyes, women who worked the makeup counters were always trying to steer me into some shade of violet. “I don’t wear color on my eyes,” I always told them, which was something I once heard my mother say when a woman at the Clinique counter came at her lid with a burgundy pencil.
Hilton’s remaining two mirrors displayed what you could expect to find in Hilton’s evening bag (her Sidekick!) and how many hours of beauty sleep she required (eight!). If the accompanying photo was any indication, Hilton caught those z’s in full makeup.
Hilton had inspired me, at least with her eye makeup. I decided to go all out and supplement her advice with Allure magazine’s Best of Beauty issue from last month. (I had saved the master list of 152 products, knowing that I’d eventually figure out an excuse to buy a shitload of makeup.)
I scrolled down the list of the ten best eye shadows and circled the colors that looked the most purple. Then I tore the entire five-page directory out of the magazine and marched straight to Sephora.
“Ooooooh, you have a list!” gasped a male employee with ambitiously streaked blond hair. Sidling up to me, he pulled a pair of nerdy art glasses from the pocket of his black lab coat. “What should we do first?” asked the Streaker excitedly.
“I need to get Chanel Illuminating Eyeshadow in Riviera,” I announced, reading verbatim from my list.
“Oooooh,” Streaker cooed, looking at my face. “That’s going to be gorgeous.”
We spent some time at the Chanel kiosk—the Streaker, pulling out various boxes, reading the label, and then returning them to their cubbyholes; me, studying my list and thinking of what goose chase to send him on next.
“I guess we don’t have it,” Streaker said, illustrating his disappointment with a lip-jut. “How about if I put you in a color that’s close enough?”
“No,” I said seriously. “I need this color.”
“Have you worn it before?” Streaker asked, stepping closer to me.
“No.”
“Then how do you know you won’t like another color?” he asked pleasantly.
“I have to have this color,” I explained. “Allure said so.”
By now, I was in full character, playing a woman who treated Allure like the beauty bible it was. The Streaker didn’t even flinch. “I see,” he said, completely unfazed. “What else do you have on that list?” As we flitted through the store, I wondered how many other women came to the Streaker clutching their own torn pages.
I escaped with just over $101 in merchandise, a haul that included only two items from my original list: Stila eye shadow in Kitten (a sort of pinky mauve, which was purple enough for me) and Fresh Sugar Lip Treatment, because an old gay boyfriend of mine used this stuff religiously, and every time he kissed me hello, I vowed to get my own tube. (I also replenished my supply of Shu Uemura mascara, which is always on every magazine’s Best list.)
In “The Stress Mess,” Self suggested I calm any preparty jitters by wearing “something interesting, like funky jewelry,” an instant conversation starter that “makes it easier for people to find something to say to you.” I was in Filene’s Basement, the mecca of attention-grabbing fashion (designer garb way too outré to sell at retail, especially in suntan-pantyhose-wearing D.C.), trying on a dressing room full of sparkly, deeply discounted leftovers from Barneys New York. I had just slipped on this season’s mandatory cropped-sleeve chunky turtleneck sweater by Chaiken, a steal at only $49.99. Its colors, a mottled mix of blues and pinks, were a lucky find, compared to the universally unflattering shades that typically filled the racks at places like Filene’s.
When I stepped closer to the mirror, I spotted something I had never noticed before. Maybe it was the specific spot where the turtleneck hit my neck, maybe it was the severe dressing room lighting casting phantom shadows on me, but there it was, staring me right in the face. Or neck. A turkey gorgle, flip-flapping back and forth. I studied myself from different angles, tugging at the hanging, crepey skin in scientific wonder and womanly derision. Instinctively, I started doing a facial exercise I remembered my mother doing ( probably around the same age as I was now). “Pretend you are kissing the sky.” She had demonstrated by keeping her eyes forward and pursing her lips upward, like a mackerel gasping for its last breath.
I traded the turkeyneck sweater for a body-hugging Nicole Farhi panne velvet gown the color of a desert cactus. Glamour’s “After-Dark Special!” was bursting with sexy, strappy eveningwear like this. Pulling the dress over my head, I thought of how hot Natalie Portman looked in her Dior sequined slip. This was how I wanted to make an entrance.
The Farhi dress, however, needed to be quickly evacuated off my body. It hung off me in
unrepentant ways, just like the skin on my neck. It was time to come up from the Basement and admit the truth. I could no longer pull off dressing like I was twenty-five. Karl was turning thirty, and a month later, I would be forty. Was this why they had seats in dressing rooms? Parking myself on a sheet of particleboard, I recalled number 3 on Self’s “Seven Days to Less Stress.”
LISTEN TO YOUR BODY
Close your eyes and notice where you’re feeling tension. Is your jaw tight? Are your fists clenched? Concentrate on the trouble spots and think about releasing.
I focused on my neck flap and took a deep breath. Then I thought about Barbara Bush and wondered if Filene’s sold a triple strand of pearls.
“That’s a wattle,” said Jeanne after I phoned to tell her what I found in the dressing room. “W-A-T-T-L-E,” she spelled helpfully, in case I was taking notes on the other end. For me, it would have been more useful if she had denied its existence instead of confirming it with an actual word from the dictionary.
While brushing our teeth in our yellow-tiled bathroom, I showed Karl my wattle.
“Someone from work told me I was a lucky bitch and wanted to know how I managed to get such a young boyfriend,” I said.
“She’s the bitch,” Karl answered, spitting toothpaste into the sink. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her that I had used a stun gun and kept you under heavy sedation.” Actually, I had told her that I was insulted to be cast as the predator. Demi Moore had recently married Ashton Kutcher, and I was sick of the whole Cougar story. “What makes you so sure I was the one who ‘got’ Karl?” I had asked her in a tone that let her know I thought she was an asshole.
Karl knew I was worried about what other people might be saying about our age difference. “Fuck her and fuck the people,” he said. “I’ve never followed convention and neither have you, which is why we’re together and why we’ll die together.”
“What will you do when I’m old and wrinkled and you’re still young and Buddha-faced?” It may have sounded like an extreme question, but it was the burning, febrile core of my insecurity.
“I’ll kiss your liver spots.”
In bed, we played our favorite game. “Would you still love me if I had a tail? If I had hair all over me? If I was a dwarf? If I had robot legs?”
“Would you still love me if you had amnesia?” I asked.
“That would be great.” He pulled my head to his chest and combed through the wispy hair at my temple with his fingers. “Then I’d get to fall in love with you all over again.”
I roped Zelly, our little motorcycle-riding friend from JDate, into being a surprise party accomplice. Zelly had recently moved to California to teach economics at Berkeley, and his visit home that weekend was the excuse I needed to get Karl out of the house for what he thought would be a cheap Italian dinner for three.
“Sounds fun,” Karl had said gamely, even though I could tell he was disappointed at the thought of turning thirty over a plate of pasta.
The night before the party, I had taken two Ambiens, so I spent the majority of the next day too doped out to be anxious, an unintentional and unexpected benefit. Luckily, I had already preselected my outfit, based on Glamour’s “12 Ways to Be the Most Irresistible Woman at the Party.” Under the heading
3. LOOK COOL, ACT WARM.
writers Kimberly Bonnell and Pamela Redmond Satran recommended wearing “your favorite curve-hugging jeans and your sexier-than-thou pumps, then treat everyone like your favorite cousin.”
At almost six feet tall, I have never needed to augment that fact by wearing heels, so for the pumps I substituted a touchable eggplant-colored velvet top trimmed with gold rope along the neck, a sort of mini-goddess version of Natalie Portman’s cover look.
Karl remained oblivious to my added ministering, even when I presented my black-rimmed purple eyes to him.
“You’re very pretty,” he said, patting my back pocket. His compliment did more to energize me than Glamour’s most improbable suggestions:
1. DANCE IN YOUR UNDERWEAR.
AT HOME. BEFORE THE PARTY.
No. Way. Ever.
While Karl walked to the car, I lagged behind and called Zelly.
“We’re on our way,” I said just loud enough for Karl to hear. I didn’t want him getting suspicious so close to the surprise.
“So am I,” said Zelly.
“But you’re already supposed to be there.” Zelly’s only job was to get to the restaurant early and usher the guests into the back room that I had reserved for the night.
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Since Zelly was the one who gave me the Ambien, I wondered if maybe he had taken one too many himself. It was a good time to repeat the mantra that Self had suggested for times like this. Peace, I told my brain.
When we got to the restaurant, I saw half of the party standing at the front bar. I immediately spotted Zelly, who was yukking it up with a whiskey in his hand. When he saw me, he sprinted toward the back of the restaurant.
“Why is Zelly running away?” said Karl, who luckily hadn’t noticed that most of his friends were about three inches away.
“SURPRISE!” everyone yelled from various corners of the restaurant. I looked at Karl, who was standing there with the face that most babies get when they figure out they’ve been tricked into getting a vaccination. Peace, I told myself.
Crazy Larry was the first guest out of the gate. He ran over to us like Karl was a returning hero and Larry was his war bride. “We did it!” he said, giving Karl a bear hug and acting like he had something to do with the party. I was glad to note that Larry had already broken one of Glamour’s cardinal party rules in “Do’s & Don’ts of Ruling the Night.” According to Amy Sacco, NYC nightlife queen, “If you see people you know walk into the party, let them get a drink, take off their coats, and settle in before you approach them. No one likes to be bombarded.”
I was about to break another.
7. BE THE ONLY ONE AT THE PARTY NOT DRINKING.
From the bar, I watched Karl on his own journey of discovery. Every time he’d spot someone else he wasn’t expecting to see, his hands would fly up and he’d laugh and yell, “Holy shit!”
He was basking in the spotlight. And other than making a brief announcement about gathering for birthday cake (“11. Speak Up!”), I was happy to remain off in the wings.
At the end of the night, which had venue-switched to a seedy bar with a woefully bad cover band, Karl’s best friend Rob pulled me aside. He was a man of few words, usually parsed one at a time, over a period of weeks. “You are so fucking in,” he yelled over the din.
I spent the next couple of weeks feeling like a superstar. Karl told everyone about the party—from the checkout cashier at the supermarket to the couple next to us in the movie theater. When my parents phoned to confirm the arrival time of our flight home for Thanksgiving, he told them, “It was the best birthday of my life.”
It was then that I began to have the entirely irrational yet wholly possible idea that Karl might propose to me on my birthday. I was turning forty a month away, on Christmas Day. What if Karl one-upped the Baby Jesus by getting down on one knee and presenting me with the best birthday of my life?
Of course, now, looking back, I admit I was getting a little ahead of myself. But who could blame me? I was riding high on the success of the surprise party. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, my confidence level knew no boundaries.
My parents had met Karl only recently, on a whirlwind trip to D.C., where my father was rendered speechless after Karl stealthily picked up the tab for an expensive dinner. “I hate to tell you,” said my father the next morning, “that is one handsome guy.” My mother was also a huge fan. She had forgotten her initial warnings about steeling for disappointment and looked upon Karl as the daughter she never had. Both shared a retail background, and Karl had spent hours talking with my mother about the benefits of private-label clothing.
If Karl wanted thei
r blessing before proposing next month, now was his chance to get it. I began to plot ways to throw my father and Karl together for “the talk.” At the same time, I was hoping that my mother and I would also have our own reasons to engage.
Before leaving for Connecticut, I spoke with Dr. Oskar about how guilty I felt about shutting down whenever I went home. For reasons I still didn’t understand, every time I was around my mother, I reverted back to my sullen high school self. Basically, I went mute, a condition that caused my mother to default into oratory overdrive. In other words, I got constipated, she developed verbal diarrhea.
“It’s so cruel to do to her,” I told him, reaching for a tissue. “Why do I do it?”
As I said before, Dr. Oskar wasn’t a big fan of my mother. His memory was sharp, and the scene of her explaining why I’d always need to wear makeup had not sat well with him. Even though I constantly defended my mother with plenty of examples of her kindness, openness, forgiveness, and intense love—all directed at me—he still wasn’t quick to forgive her for being so emotionally blind to her daughter’s voracious need to be seen and accepted, as is.
“It’s very violating,” he explained, “to have your mother define who you are.”
“That word is a little strong,” I challenged. It bothered me to hear him talking about my mother like this.
“Maybe violating isn’t the right word,” he apologized. “Let me try again.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, maybe running his thoughts through the Swedish-to-English language engine in his brain.
“Okay, we try this again,” he began. “Because your mother has defined you in the past—as klutzy, or shy, or sensitive—you have learned to shut down to protect yourself.”