She sighs from the other end of the couch, supine, bare feet on my lap. “I have to tell you something,” she says.
We were watching Mob Land. At least I thought we were watching Mob Land. It turns out I was the only one watching Mob Land. She on the other hand was staring emptily at the screen the whole time, waiting apparently for the right moment to spring it on me.
“What’s up?” I say.
“I’m thinking of actually getting that work done.”
“Oh?”
“What do you think?”
First off, I think I’m a man who fancies himself a rather blunt and direct communicator. I coach others. Not in any official capacity or for-profit kind of way. More like through example. A mute, Hey, watch this. And then I’ll proceed to, say, the bar, where the very last thing I do is beat around the bush. Or on the phone with a creditor or, more recently, my union rep. He better than anyone knows my straight talk. I’ve even gotten accolades for my communication prowess. Phone numbers too.
“What do I think of what?”
“What I just said? Were you even listening?”
“Of course I was listening.”
“Then what do you think?”
It’s practically second nature this facile bluntness of mine. But before I can answer brutally honestly, she hands me both of her hands. I help her sit up. She squirms to get comfortable. It’s about to get real around here. She repeats herself: “What do you think?”
I think there’s a lot of big pouty lips and curvy butts going around. All kinds of “work” getting done. Foreheads, eyes, tummies, around the eyes. Sometimes, like this past Halloween for example, there’s a group of some fifty-somethings with gravity-defying cheekbones. The bars we hopped around at were dark, we were plowed, but I’ll bet their “work” still looked good in broad, sober daylight. The one I clicked with the most lives in Arizona, so I’ll likely never get the chance to confirm that.
I mean, I guess as long as you don’t come out the procedure room looking like Mrs. Dell, I’m cool with it?
That’s of course not how I answered. I’m more bullseye artist than that.
And I know that’s not very nice. But neither are the Dells last I checked. I know someone who works for them in Home Base, Texas. She told me the other day the all too common, harried tale of how she’s doing the work of four people and in the same breath how she doesn’t speak up about it for fear of losing her job. How many times have we heard this booming economy story? Reap what you sow, Mrs. Dell.
I digress.
For this is a story about the great lengths many women seem to go through to, I guess, stay young, confident, relevant. It’s a story, too, about what I (we) carry after we help them sit up from the couch, after they look us straight in the eyes and ask, What do you think? Or even better, How much should I get done? Removed? Added?
“Hello!” she says.
“I’m right here.”
“Say something.”
We’re friends who occasionally wind up in the sack (in case you’re following along and thought I might be cheating on my girlfriend with a high-cheeked Arizonian). The stakes aren’t as high, then. Still, I need to be my signature blunt. I just love your honesty, she’ll remind me of, constantly. It turns out my unfiltered honesty is why she’s on my couch this night, and not the other thing.
Honestly? I wonder if over time all that lifting and tightening, nipping and tucking, will sag or, worse, go all asymmetrical like with a stroke victim. This information could be helpful in my restraint-less delivery.
I know, too, that it all stems from a sacred and private and delicate place. She’s been known to ask me, Do you have any idea what women go through?
I think of Mrs. Dell. Kristi Noem. Others. All whose work kind of like leaps out at you. I kinda do know, I’ll say.
She’ll even do something cheeky once in a while, like hold out her manicured hands. I’ll interject: Time out! Do you have any idea what we go through?
And I’m not talking strictly nose hair or ear hair or hair in other unseemly places.
Or cleaning out the car.
Or making sure the fridge is emptied of expired hummus and stocked instead with fresh fruit and some cheeses and crunchy celery, charcuterie, and tequila chasers. I seem to have a way with women who like my straight talk and who are also allergic to hosting.
Or vacuum the house.
Or cutting the grass.
Or . . . do you have any idea what we go through, ladies?
But enough’s enough. It’s time. Her stare’s been giving me the business for a few minutes now. She’s lying back down in resignation. I need to nut up. Summon up my no-nonsense sac. Tell her how much in very real specific terms how much waist to suck in. How much ass to–I don’t even know all the terms . I have zero clue how to express butt dimples. I just know they’re my Achilles (side boob a close second). So I start there.
“Stand up,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Stand. Up.”
-tmc
