“A total waste of time,” I mumble, but it’s doubtful that she can hear me over the pulsing remix of George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex.” I am reminded of the time Jess went out with colleagues for a little karaoke and picked this tune. Talk about bold, taking the stage to a song that, as a grand finale, has you screaming the words Have sex with me ! over and over again to a room full of drunken bankers. Par for the course for Jess.
A moment later, I emerge from the dressing room, thinking for sure that I’ve proven my point. The pants look and feel baggy, which is shocking because they’re a size six, and I’m usually an eight. Then again, I know I’ve lost some weight since my divorce, at least ten pounds, maybe more. I was just telling Jess last night that there are two kinds of women, those who eat in a crisis and those who lose their appetite in a crisis. Most fall into the chowhound crowd, so I consider myself blessed to be in the second camp.
“Those are incredible,” Jess says. “Whether you wear them tonight or not, they’re a definite yes.”
“Aren’t they too big?” I ask, tugging at the waist and checking my reflection in the mirror.
Jess slaps away my hand and explains that they’re supposed to hang low, on my hips. “Besides, you can’t go tight with white pants. You’ll look ghetto. Tight black pants are one thing, but tight white pants are so Britney Spears,” Jess says to push Daphne’s buttons.
It’s sort of a contradiction to her traditional, homemaker side, but Daphne is one of those full-grown women who loves all things cheesy and adolescent. She has the complete DVD box set of Dawson’s Creek . She still keeps stuffed animals on the window seat in her bedroom. She also orders those glittery tank tops from the back of Us Weekly that say things like DIVA IN TRAINING. So obviously, Daphne’s a Britney fan. At one point, Daphne went so far as to see her teen idol perform out on Rockefeller Plaza on The Today Show . She was one of the only women in her late twenties, rocking out without a preteen in her company. The funny thing was, a couple of kids in her fifth-grade class spotted her on television the morning before school and seemed to be profoundly impacted by the sight of their teacher singing along to “Hit Me Baby One More Time.” I told Daphne it would be like watching your teacher dance on Soul Train or Solid Gold . Impressive, but a little bit unsettling. Teachers, after all, were supposed to freeze in their classrooms at night while we went home and had a life.
Anyway, Daphne and Jess agree that my white pants are fabulous, and Daphne insists that she can hem them, no problem. They agree that the silk halter is flattering, too. It displays what little cleavage I have and is tight in just the right places (which adheres to another of Jess’s fashion rulesif the pants are loose, the top should be tightor vice versa). And the fuchsia shrug is the perfect finishing touch.
“In case the restaurant is chilly,” Jess says.
“Or in case Richard keeps the air low in his apartment” Daphne says, giggling as I spin in front of the mirror on my tiptoes. I have to admit that I do look pretty good. Above all, the thought of being finished with our spree holds tremendous appeal. I really hate shopping. If I won the lottery, one of the first things I’d do is hire a personal shopper for groceries, clothing, Christmas presents, everything. So I change quickly, hurry over to the cash register and toss down my Amex, purchasing the ensemble guaranteed to give me confidence and make Richard swoon.
That night, I can tell straightaway that Jess and Daphne were right about the outfit. For starters, I fit right in with the crowd at Spice Market, the lavish duplex restaurant in the Meatpacking District. More important, Richard comes right out and tells me that I look fantastic.
“I’ve never seen you in anything like that,” Richard says as we follow the ma?tre d’ to our table. His hand rests for a beat on the small of my back. “But I guess I’ve never seen you outside of a work function”
“You, either,” I say, admiring Richard’s corduroy jacket.
I’m suddenly reminded of Richard’s flamboyantly gay ex-assistant Jared Lewison. Jared used to keep cards marked 1 through 10 at his desk and would rate people’s outfits as they walked by (behind their backs, of course) as if he were a gymnastics judge at the Olympics. Michael, who was pretty good friends with Jared, derived much amusement from the exercise, passing on the results to the rest of us. In fact, I owe Jared gratitude for teaching me one of life’s crucial lessons: do not wear patent leather after Labor Day. Michael informed me that I earned myself a 3 for that fashion lapse.
I ask Richard now if he knew about Jared Lewison’s cards.
“Sure did,” Richard says. “Apparently I was regularly rated between a two and a four With a high score of six.”
“What were you wearing when you got the six?” I ask as our waitress, wearing an orange kimono, delivers us our menu.
“I think it was some kind of turtleneck sweater,” he says, laughing.
I smile, recognizing that I’m no longer nervous.