Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? by Jen Lancaster Page B
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: Humor, Fiction, General, Humorous, Humorous fiction, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Biography, Essay/s, Authors; American, Women, City and Town Life, Form, 21st Century, Chicago (Ill.), Jeanne, Lancaster; Jen, Authors; American - 21st century, Chicago (Ill.) - Social life and customs
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can get without actually shucking off a layer of epidermis, so I decide to spend my last half hour in the Quiet Room. Yeah, I’d like to remain in the Jacuzzi, but I just can’t take any more naked because, really, how do you not look? As competitive as I am, I’ve been comparing myself to everyone else here and so far I am not happy with the results. I do have a better figure than that one chick, but it’s only because she’s at least seventy and had a mastectomy. Yep, you may have beat cancer, but I beat you! 19
I towel off and put on my underwear before wrapping my robe tightly around me. I walk down the stairs to the dim, serene Quiet Room, where everyone is delightfully covered in layers of white terry cloth. Wicker chairs with big squashy cushions are scattered throughout the large room, with lots of space between them in order to foster peace and serenity. I grab an Us Weekly from the magazine rack and a cup of organic green tea, swirling in lots of honey. Save for a faint bit of whale music, the room is so still I can practically hear my heartbeat.
Magazine unopened, I sit and sip the scalding tea. As I silently reflect on the day, I have to laugh at myself. God, how did I ever get so uptight? I mean, I really need to (a) relax, and, barring that, at least (b) learn to mind my own business. What right do I have to be uncomfortable if someone decides to shed her clothing before getting in a well-chlorinated, single-sex hot tub? This place isn’t exactly a set for Girls Gone Wild , so it’s not like anything untoward is going to happen once people have derobed. Grandma is not about to shake her remaining breast at the camera. And who died and made me the Clothing-Always Police? No one here’s done a thing wrong, yet I have the nerve to sit in judgment based on my own ridiculous prejudices. It’s not fair and it’s not right and I recognize that. And I’m more than a little ashamed of myself.
Resolved: Naked is a natural state and totally appropriate in a spa setting.
And I am fine with that.
For you.
I sit back and enjoy my tea, pleased at the idea of possibly being a better person.
However, when some random girl, naked as a jaybird, strolls into the Quiet Room of the Thousand Waves Spa and spends ten minutes bent over right in front of me with her little brown starfish waving hello to God and everyone while she paws through the magazine rack in search of the most current issue of the New Yorker , please know the line between “appropriate spa behavior” and “graphic peep show” has been crossed.
And if the air disturbed by my resulting scream causes yet another Indonesian tidal wave, well…I’m sorry.
But it’s totally Fletch’s fault.
----
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: more tales from a terrible wife
Setting: Skybox at Wrigley Field, last Saturday afternoon.
Fletch: Our wives are going to die when they find out who we met.
Jeff: They’ll go apeshit. My wife watches every week.
Fletch: Jen watches a lot, too.
Jeff: You know what we should do? Let’s not tell them—we’ll wait until they see the pictures.
Fletch: Good idea. I’m sure Jen’s reaction will be priceless.
Fast-forward to today at the Costco photo booth, 4:30 p.m.
Me: These pictures are very nice, sweetie.
Fletch: (picking one out of the stack) And what do you think of this one?
Me: Your shirt is cute.
Fletch: (trying to suppress a smile) Uh-huh? And?
Me: And what?
Fletch: Anything else you want to say?
Me: Your hair looks nice.
Fletch: And?
Me: Um, you aren’t quite as bloated as those photos from the Bears game where it looks like you swallowed a whole keg?
Fletch: And??
Me: (glancing at the photo again) Who’s the little guy? Is he one of your clients, too?
Fletch: Does he look familiar?
Me: Kind of. Wait, is that…is that…Ferris? My old boss from when I worked at that bar in college?
Fletch: No. Look and think. You know him.
Me:
I towel off and put on my underwear before wrapping my robe tightly around me. I walk down the stairs to the dim, serene Quiet Room, where everyone is delightfully covered in layers of white terry cloth. Wicker chairs with big squashy cushions are scattered throughout the large room, with lots of space between them in order to foster peace and serenity. I grab an Us Weekly from the magazine rack and a cup of organic green tea, swirling in lots of honey. Save for a faint bit of whale music, the room is so still I can practically hear my heartbeat.
Magazine unopened, I sit and sip the scalding tea. As I silently reflect on the day, I have to laugh at myself. God, how did I ever get so uptight? I mean, I really need to (a) relax, and, barring that, at least (b) learn to mind my own business. What right do I have to be uncomfortable if someone decides to shed her clothing before getting in a well-chlorinated, single-sex hot tub? This place isn’t exactly a set for Girls Gone Wild , so it’s not like anything untoward is going to happen once people have derobed. Grandma is not about to shake her remaining breast at the camera. And who died and made me the Clothing-Always Police? No one here’s done a thing wrong, yet I have the nerve to sit in judgment based on my own ridiculous prejudices. It’s not fair and it’s not right and I recognize that. And I’m more than a little ashamed of myself.
Resolved: Naked is a natural state and totally appropriate in a spa setting.
And I am fine with that.
For you.
I sit back and enjoy my tea, pleased at the idea of possibly being a better person.
However, when some random girl, naked as a jaybird, strolls into the Quiet Room of the Thousand Waves Spa and spends ten minutes bent over right in front of me with her little brown starfish waving hello to God and everyone while she paws through the magazine rack in search of the most current issue of the New Yorker , please know the line between “appropriate spa behavior” and “graphic peep show” has been crossed.
And if the air disturbed by my resulting scream causes yet another Indonesian tidal wave, well…I’m sorry.
But it’s totally Fletch’s fault.
----
To: angie_at_home, carol_at_home, wendy_at_home, jen_at_work
From: [email protected]
Subject: more tales from a terrible wife
Setting: Skybox at Wrigley Field, last Saturday afternoon.
Fletch: Our wives are going to die when they find out who we met.
Jeff: They’ll go apeshit. My wife watches every week.
Fletch: Jen watches a lot, too.
Jeff: You know what we should do? Let’s not tell them—we’ll wait until they see the pictures.
Fletch: Good idea. I’m sure Jen’s reaction will be priceless.
Fast-forward to today at the Costco photo booth, 4:30 p.m.
Me: These pictures are very nice, sweetie.
Fletch: (picking one out of the stack) And what do you think of this one?
Me: Your shirt is cute.
Fletch: (trying to suppress a smile) Uh-huh? And?
Me: And what?
Fletch: Anything else you want to say?
Me: Your hair looks nice.
Fletch: And?
Me: Um, you aren’t quite as bloated as those photos from the Bears game where it looks like you swallowed a whole keg?
Fletch: And??
Me: (glancing at the photo again) Who’s the little guy? Is he one of your clients, too?
Fletch: Does he look familiar?
Me: Kind of. Wait, is that…is that…Ferris? My old boss from when I worked at that bar in college?
Fletch: No. Look and think. You know him.
Me:
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