no reason why she can't flirt a little.”
“It couldn’t have escaped her notice that you and Roman came together.” She reaches down to pick a plastic grocery bag off the concrete next to her chair. “By the way,” she says, handing it to me, “happy birthday. Don’t open it now…it’s strictly a girls-only type of present.”
“Um…okay,” I say. I can tell by the feel of the object through the wrap that it’s a book. Kat has been known to buy her friends copies of books like 20 Things You Should Know About Your Vagina . I tuck the bag into my purse and put it out of my thoughts immediately.
As if reading my mind Kat says, “What are you going to do about your boobs?”
I sigh while at the same time silently hoping that a sudden shift in the tilt of the Earth’s axis throws her off the chair. “I doubt he’s going to ask to see my breasts on our second date.”
“You never know…best to be prepared,” she says, chortling through a mouth full of potato chips. “Eventually your prosthetics are going to catch up with you.”
Kat often takes cruel advantage of my poor body image. She knows that I have no alternative but to hoist up my somewhat saggy 36 C-cup breasts into a Victoria’s Secret gel bra. If I were to drop my bra on the floor, it would maintain its silicone-filled shape, making it appear as if someone had, in a moment of forgetfulness, misplaced their breasts.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that you spend so much time obsessing over my secondary sexual characteristics?” I gripe. “Why don’t you ask me if I shaved my armpits today while you’re at it?” I scoop some chips into my hand. “And I’m not getting breast implants,” I say, anticipating the next topic she’ll bring up. “They’d look ridiculous on me. They wouldn’t look real.”
“Most men argue that it’s ‘real’ if they can touch it with their hands.”
“It’s real ,” I counter, “if you don’t have to have it removed before you’re cremated.”
“I’m not even telling you to get breast implants, just advising a breast lift,” she says, still laughing merrily. “In about ten years they’re going to be sagging around your waist like National Geographic tent flaps. Then what are you going to do?”
“Buy a 36-Long,” I mutter, looking over my shoulder into the house to see what’s keeping Roman. I consider going inside to rescue him from the man-eating mother-in-law.
“Do I want to know what kind of conversation I’ve wandered into?” Roman slides up behind me and holds out a glass of white wine.
“Thanks.” I silently vow to maintain control of all the dishes, glasses, and utensils that I may hold during the course of the evening, regardless of what Roman is saying, doing, or touching.
Lydia appears, a store-bought coconut cake in hand. One lonely birthday candle stands tall in the center. “Who is this for?”
“Leigh,” says Kat, as she spears a steak from the platter and begins cutting it into little pieces for her son who still hasn’t materialized. “It’s her birthday.”
“It's your birthday?” says Roman, turning to me in surprise. “Why didn't you say anything?”
“She hates celebrating her birthday,” says Kat.
“What is it with women and birthdays?” Roman mutters as Lydia piles salad onto his plate like he’s four years old. “It's just a number.”
“Oh, getting older isn't Leigh’s problem.”
“Shut up, Kat.” This is careening into embarrassment territory fast.
“Leigh hates the presents.”
Roman looks at me curiously. “You don't like presents?”
“She likes the presents ,” says Kat. “She just hates trying to figure out what to say when she gets them. Apparently ‘thank you’ is too complicated.”
I shoot Kat a look of hatred as I cut a small piece off a side o’ cow on the serving platter and transfer it to my plate.
“Her birthday isn’t even today,” says Lydia in a sour voice.
I roll my eyes and don't notice
“It couldn’t have escaped her notice that you and Roman came together.” She reaches down to pick a plastic grocery bag off the concrete next to her chair. “By the way,” she says, handing it to me, “happy birthday. Don’t open it now…it’s strictly a girls-only type of present.”
“Um…okay,” I say. I can tell by the feel of the object through the wrap that it’s a book. Kat has been known to buy her friends copies of books like 20 Things You Should Know About Your Vagina . I tuck the bag into my purse and put it out of my thoughts immediately.
As if reading my mind Kat says, “What are you going to do about your boobs?”
I sigh while at the same time silently hoping that a sudden shift in the tilt of the Earth’s axis throws her off the chair. “I doubt he’s going to ask to see my breasts on our second date.”
“You never know…best to be prepared,” she says, chortling through a mouth full of potato chips. “Eventually your prosthetics are going to catch up with you.”
Kat often takes cruel advantage of my poor body image. She knows that I have no alternative but to hoist up my somewhat saggy 36 C-cup breasts into a Victoria’s Secret gel bra. If I were to drop my bra on the floor, it would maintain its silicone-filled shape, making it appear as if someone had, in a moment of forgetfulness, misplaced their breasts.
“Don’t you think it’s odd that you spend so much time obsessing over my secondary sexual characteristics?” I gripe. “Why don’t you ask me if I shaved my armpits today while you’re at it?” I scoop some chips into my hand. “And I’m not getting breast implants,” I say, anticipating the next topic she’ll bring up. “They’d look ridiculous on me. They wouldn’t look real.”
“Most men argue that it’s ‘real’ if they can touch it with their hands.”
“It’s real ,” I counter, “if you don’t have to have it removed before you’re cremated.”
“I’m not even telling you to get breast implants, just advising a breast lift,” she says, still laughing merrily. “In about ten years they’re going to be sagging around your waist like National Geographic tent flaps. Then what are you going to do?”
“Buy a 36-Long,” I mutter, looking over my shoulder into the house to see what’s keeping Roman. I consider going inside to rescue him from the man-eating mother-in-law.
“Do I want to know what kind of conversation I’ve wandered into?” Roman slides up behind me and holds out a glass of white wine.
“Thanks.” I silently vow to maintain control of all the dishes, glasses, and utensils that I may hold during the course of the evening, regardless of what Roman is saying, doing, or touching.
Lydia appears, a store-bought coconut cake in hand. One lonely birthday candle stands tall in the center. “Who is this for?”
“Leigh,” says Kat, as she spears a steak from the platter and begins cutting it into little pieces for her son who still hasn’t materialized. “It’s her birthday.”
“It's your birthday?” says Roman, turning to me in surprise. “Why didn't you say anything?”
“She hates celebrating her birthday,” says Kat.
“What is it with women and birthdays?” Roman mutters as Lydia piles salad onto his plate like he’s four years old. “It's just a number.”
“Oh, getting older isn't Leigh’s problem.”
“Shut up, Kat.” This is careening into embarrassment territory fast.
“Leigh hates the presents.”
Roman looks at me curiously. “You don't like presents?”
“She likes the presents ,” says Kat. “She just hates trying to figure out what to say when she gets them. Apparently ‘thank you’ is too complicated.”
I shoot Kat a look of hatred as I cut a small piece off a side o’ cow on the serving platter and transfer it to my plate.
“Her birthday isn’t even today,” says Lydia in a sour voice.
I roll my eyes and don't notice
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