Poolside Perfection.

Ever think others have a perfect life? Think again…

The feeling was unsettling. Uncomfortable. Forty-one on the cusp of forty-two and overwhelmed. No, intimidated. Yes. By immaculately curled dirty blonde hair and sparkly giant diamond solitaire studs and highly glossed lips and a wrap dress that perfectly hugged a trim but luscious figure. By how fucking nice she is, she was. Generous with her words and spirit and physical presence.

She would lightly drag her well-manicured fingers across your elbow and look intently at your face to convey something. I am speaking to you and I care what you think and thus, I am also here to listen. I felt the imaginary shadow of her finger pads burning fiery hot jealousy across my bare skin.

When she walked in, I noticed her effortless glide in sky-high espadrilles and the coral shellac adorning her no doubt adorable toes. Not a bunion or callous or scraggly piece of body hair in sight.

She wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t a stay-at-home mom or dedicated to a hobby-like career. She did something important. Something meaningful, that required a brain. What the fuck does she do? She is in PR, or maybe marketing, or perhaps banking. And her handsome husband is attorney. And when I said I work in a legal department, she instantly turned around and waggled her elegant fingers in the sticky air.

Sweetheart.

Babe. L works in a legal department and knows some people at your firm.

She rolled her enormous engagement ring around her finger as if to remind him. I’m yours. Pay attention to me. I’m yours and I’m charming and we are interacting in front of strangers.

He smiled. A tight smile. The kind of smile reserved for men who order the most expensive sake and film their wives giving them head and send grotesque porn-filled memes to a small group of intelligent but emotionally vapid friends.

He didn’t utter a word. He just offered two pinkish slivers of skin pressed together and slightly upturned at the ends. The faintest of lines fanned the edges of his startlingly blue eyes.

I can’t remember his name now. Or hers for that matter. Hers starts with a B. Brittany? Barbie? Something like that. He’s definitely a Kurt or a Scott. No. He’s a Junior. For sure. He lifts his beer can into the air. Some craft beer, Brooklyn-brewed bullshit that he pretends to like, condensation dripping down the side. What the fuck is this? Is this a cheers? Is he cheersing his wife?

Thanks for keeping your ass tight and your tone solicitous. Slainte.

She turned back to me in that moment, hair swinging, a saccharine silage assaulting my nostrils, mouth opened into this perfect little ‘o.’ It was as if she had something to say but hadn’t quite gotten the words to connect yet. They were still swirling around in her tight little abdomen, swimming with pinot grigio and romaine. It was a surprised but also not face. There was something there. Something just beyond her lips. Something about her husband being a gem and loving the law and knowing everyone and being her rock and God bless America. Something like that.

I want to hate her. I do. I want to dislike her because she has this whole thing going for her. This whole thing where I pretend like she’s magical. A unicorn amongst common women. I bet she never gets zits on the tip of her nose or has a frizz halo when stretching out the life of a blow-out. I’m guessing she’s never had one armpit that mysteriously bears odor whilst the other remains fresh as a daisy. She’s not spilled an entire travel tumbler of coffee down an already wrinkled dress on the way to work and she definitely doesn’t have a pair of stained and ripped panties she keeps ‘just in case.’

Her kids are beautiful. Blond ringlets and strategically missing teeth that make for the cutest of smiles and cause charming little lisps when they adorably ask for cheese sticks. Teeny designer sneakers and bows adorning tank top shoulders and the longest eyelashes matted together from highly chlorinated water. One of them, Maddie or Parker or some other WASP name, is afraid of dogs. Terrified. B tells everyone this, which is lovely, but also fucking strange. As if someone is going to pull a dog out of their purse or beach bag at any moment, causing her daughter to shit on the pavers and then cry and then pass out.

To prevent this incredibly unlikely event from occurring, she has built a makeshift structure out of outdoor furniture pillows and buried them. They now have a weather resistant fort and not a soul passes them without commenting on how good they are and how quiet they are and how they play so well together. And B just nods like a bobble head.

I’m so lucky¸ she coos. And she blushes. Literally. A delicate pink hue coloring sculpted cheekbones. It’s fantastic and absurd and I have a burning desire to make it happen over and over again.

She is definitely on committees and belongs to associations. She unquestionably gives to charity and organizes events and always makes matching t-shirts and tumblers for girls’ trips. She wears white jeans in the summer and winter white trousers in the winter and never has offensive tan lines, despite wearing the latest bathing suit fashion with too many straps to count. She summers in the Hamptons, or maybe Sag Harbor, and winters in Vail, and manages to look impossibly chic in a puffer coat. A puffer coat.

Her voice is childlike but not grating and her sentences sort of loop at the end, like everything is a question to be answered by you, because she wants to know what you think, always.

When I depart, earlier than she does, she encloses my small, sweaty hand in hers, and looks directly at me in a way that’s painfully soul-searching.

I loved meeting you. I hope we get to see each other soon. Let’s make sure that happens, yes?

And with that, she leans forward and presses sticky, warm lips into my cheek.

Goodnight, I whisper. I am awkward, but it is late and everyone is drunk and no one notices. Or cares. Or both.

And now, Maria looks over at me.

What do you think? Chicken Milanese to share? By the way- our friends loved you. Loved.

I swallow, hard. My mouth opens, but no sound emerges. I take a zip of water.

I smile. Great, I say. This feels like a real asshole comment, but I’m at a loss.

The waitress walks over, sour-faced and impatient.

Let’s order, Maria says, but remind me to tell you about B. I think we are going to stage like an intervention or something. She’s totally an alcoholic.

We’ll have the burrata to start and the Chicken Milanese, please. Also, we are going to share. Also, can we please keep a menu, just in case? She smiles and passes one menu over.

My mouth opens again. A desperate baby bird. And then, it closes.

Crazy, right? Maria says, ripping a piece of bread in half.

Crazy, I say. Crazy.

x

L.