Wife 22 (20 page)

“Mail,” announces Peter, dropping an
AARP
magazine on my desk. He peers over my shoulder. “What’s with all the Dad postings? And who’s Helen Davies?”

“Somebody we used to work with.”

“Did she friend you, too?”

No, Helen Davies,
Helen of Troy,
did not friend me, too. She only friended my husband. Or he friended her. Does it matter who friended whom? Yes, it probably does.

I glare at the silver-haired couple on the cover of the
AARP
magazine. Damn it! I do not want to take advantage of a special offer for cataract drops, nor do I care to consider my line of sight above the steering wheel because I am NOT fifty and I won’t be fifty for another six years. Why do they keep sending me copies of their magazine? I thought I had taken care of this. Just last month I called AARP to explain that the Alice Buckle who recently turned fifty lived in Charleston, South Carolina, in
a lovely old house with a huge wraparound porch. “And how did I know this?” they asked. “Because I Google Earthed her,” I told them. “Google Earth Alice Buckle in Oakland, California, and you will find a woman standing in her driveway hurling an
AARP
magazine back at her mailman.”

Old girlfriends resurfacing. Getting retirement magazines before your time. This is not a good way to start off my Saturday. I Google Monkey Yoga. There’s a class in twenty minutes. If I hurry I can make it.

“And—
shavasana
, everybody.”

Finally, corpse pose! My favorite part of yoga. I roll over onto my back. Usually by the end of the class I’m nearly asleep. Not today. Even my fingertips are pulsing with energy. I should be running with Caroline—not doing sun salutations.

“Eyes shut,” says the teacher, walking around the room.

I stare up at the ceiling.

“Empty your mind.”

What the hell is happening to me?

“For those of you that want a mantra, try
Ong So Hung
.”

How can she say that with a straight face?

“This means ‘Creator, I am Thou.’ ”

I don’t need a mantra. I have a mantra that I’ve been repeating obsessively for the past twenty-four hours.
You’ve done nothing to offend me—quite the opposite, actually—that’s the problem.

“Alice, try to stop fidgeting,” the teacher whispers, stopping at my mat. I close my eyes. She squats and puts the palm of her hand on my solar plexus.

That’s the problem?
Let’s tease that sentence apart for the fiftieth time. The problem is I don’t offend him. The problem is he wishes I would offend him. The problem is he wishes I would offend him because I’m doing the opposite. What’s the opposite of offend? To please. To give pleasure. The problem is I’m giving him pleasure. Too much pleasure. Oh, God.

“Breathe, Alice, breathe.”

My eyes snap open.

I’m in the dressing room, changing out of my yoga gear, when a naked woman walks by on her way to the shower. Nudity is not something I’m comfortable with. Of course I might feel differently if I had a fabulous body like this woman, perfectly groomed, manicured, pedicured, her pubic hair completely waxed off.

I stare for a moment—I can’t help it; I’ve never seen an actual live woman with a Brazilian. Is this what men like? Is this what gives them
pleasure
?

After my yoga class, Nedra and I meet for lunch. Just as she’s biting into her burrito I ask, “Do you wax down there?”

Nedra puts down her burrito and sighs.

“Of course it’s fine if you don’t. There might be different pubic-hair rules for lesbians.”

“I wax, darling,” says Nedra.

“How much?”

“All of it.”

“You’ve been getting Brazilians?” I cry. “And you didn’t tell me I should be getting them, too?”

“Technically, it’s called a Hollywood if you take everything off. You want the number of the place I go? Ask for Hilary. She’s the best and she’s quick; it barely hurts. Now can we talk about something else? Perhaps a topic more suitable for daylight?”

“Okay. What’s an antonym for ‘offend’?”

Nedra stares at me suspiciously. “Have you lost weight?”

“Why, do I look like I have?”

“Your face is skinnier. Are you working out?”

“I’m working too much to work out. School ends in two weeks. I’m juggling six plays.”

“Well, you look good,” says Nedra. “And you’re not wearing fleece for once. I can actually see your body. I like the tank-and-cardi look. It suits you. You have a very sexy neck, Alice.”

“A sexy neck?” I think of Researcher 101. I think I should show Nedra Lucy Pevensie’s Facebook page.

Nedra picks up her cellphone. “I’m going to call Hilary and make you an appointment because I know you’ll never do it.” She punches in the number, has a quick conversation, utters a
thank you darling
, and snaps her cell shut. “She had a cancellation. She can take you in an hour. My treat.”

“Nedra said you’re quick. And painless.”

“I do my best. Have you considered
vajazzling
? Or
vatooing
?” asks Hilary.

Does this woman really expect me to have a conversation about
va
jazzes
when she’s about to apply hot wax to my
vatoo
?

Hilary stirs the pot of wax with a tongue depressor. “Let’s take a look, shall we?” She lifts the paper thong and
tsk
s. “Someone hasn’t been keeping up with their waxing.”

“It’s been a while,” I say.

“How long?”

“Forty-four years.”

Hilary’s eyes widen. “Wow—a waxing virgin. We don’t get too many of those. Never even had the bikini line waxed?”

“Well, I keep things tidy. I shave.”

“Doesn’t count. Why don’t we start with a Brazilian with a two-inch strip? More of an American, really. We’ll ease you into it.”

“No—I want a Hollywood. That’s what everybody does these days, right?”

“A lot of younger people do. But most women your age tend to just neaten things up.”

“I want it all off,” I say.

“All right,” says Hilary.

She folds one side of the paper thong back and I close my eyes. The hot wax drips onto my skin. I tense up, expecting it to burn, but surprisingly it feels good. This isn’t so bad. Hilary lays down a cloth strip and smooths it.

“I’m going to count to three,” she says.

I grab her wrist, suddenly panicked. “I’m not ready.”

She looks at me calmly.

“No, please. Okay, wait, wait, just give me a sec—I’m almost ready.”

“One,” she says and rips off the strip.

I shriek. “What happened to ‘two’?”

“It’s better to be surprised,” she says, surveying the area, frowning. “You don’t use retinol products, do you?”

On my
vatoo
, no.

“The first time is the worst. Each time it will be easier.” She hands me a mirror.

“I don’t need to see,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. “Just finish it.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Do you want to take a break?”

“No,” I practically shout.

She raises her eyebrows at me.

“I’m sorry. What I meant to say is please keep going before I lose my nerve, and I’ll do my very best not to cry.”

“It’s all right if you do. You wouldn’t be the first,” she says.

I waltz out of Hilary’s shop with a half-off coupon for my next wax and an aftercare admonition (DO NOT take any Dead Sea salt baths for at least twenty-four hours—no problem there, Hilary) and a sexy little secret that nobody knows but me. I smile at other women I pass on the street, feeling like I’ve joined the tribe of impeccably groomed women, women who are taking care of business
down there
. I feel so lighthearted (and relieved I don’t have to endure that pain for another month) that I stop at Green Light Books to look at magazines, something I rarely do because I’m always in such a hurry.

Michelle Williams is on the cover of
Vogue
. Apparently, according to
Vogue
, MiWi is the new it-girl. There’s a two-page spread of MiWi’s Night on the Town in Austin. Here’s the lovely MiWi taking a dip at Barton Springs. Here she is sitting at the bar at Fado, drinking a Green Flash Le Freak. And here she is an hour later trying on the skinniest, hottest jeans at Luxe Apothetique. Wasn’t Michelle the it-girl two years ago, too? Do they recycle it-girls? That doesn’t seem fair. Shouldn’t they give other it-girls like me a chance?

6:01 P.M.: Answering her cellphone (something she will later regret)

“Yes, of course I want to go to a movie about a beautiful French woman who owns a banana plantation in the Congo who is eventually macheted to death by the men she used to employ,” says Alice Buckle, a forty-four-year-old mother and wife who unfortunately
still
doesn’t have a bikini body even though she’s lost eight pounds recently (the truth is, 130 pounds at forty-four looks very different from 130 pounds at twenty-four). “I’m looking forward to having a man with extremely long legs knee my chair for the entire show,” says Alice.

6:45 P.M.: AlBu spotted hyperventilating

It-girl Alice Buckle circles around and around the mall parking lot looking for a spot, muttering “get the hell out of my way, cow,” to all the people who are also circling around the mall parking lot looking for a spot. “What the hell, I’ll just park illegally,” cries Alice. “It could be worse,” she laughs gaily, as she runs to the theater. “This could be opening night for
Toy Story 8
.”

6:55 P.M: AlBu in enormous line at ticket counter

“It’s opening night for
Toy Story 8
,” reports Alice Buckle.

7:20 P.M.: It-Girl Alice Buckle crawling over a bunch of old people in her not-ready-for-bikini body to get to the seat her best friend, Nedra, saved for her

“You just missed the best part—where the son was conscripted into the Hutu army,” says Nedra.

7:25 P.M.: AlBu fast asleep

9:32 P.M.: AlBu spotted pulling into neighbor’s driveway mistaking it for her own

AlBu’s night vision is impaired. Her mood darkens, worrying about early-onset macular degeneration. Mood improves after listening to “Dance with Me” by Orleans in the car. “This reminds me so much of high school,” she cries, then she really begins to cry. “It’s so unfair. How come French women look so good without makeup? Maybe if every woman in America stopped wearing makeup we’d all look good, too. After a few months, that is.”

10:51 P.M.: AlBu goes to bed without washing off her makeup

“It was a magical night, but I won’t lie. Being an it-girl is exhausting,” admits Alice as she crawls into bed. “Roll over, darling, you’re snoring,” she says, tapping her husband on the shoulder, who promptly licks her on the face. “Jampo!” Alice cries, gathering up her tiny dog in her arms. “I thought you were William!” It’s hard to be angry at the dog for kicking her husband out of bed when he’s so cute and spirited to boot. The two snuggle up together and in a few hours, Alice wakes to find the nice present Jampo has left on her husband’s pillow.

“Excuse me, but are you planning on buying that magazine?” interrupts a young saleswoman.

“Oh—sorry.” I close the
Vogue
, smoothing out the cover. “Why, do you want to look at it?”

She points to a handwritten sign. “You’re not allowed to read the magazines. We try and keep them pristine for people who are actually buying them.”

“Really? Then how are you supposed to know if you want to buy them?”

“Look on the cover. The cover tells you everything that’s inside.” She gives me a dirty look.

I put the magazine back on the rack. “This is exactly why magazines are dying,” I say.

That night, while the kids are cleaning up after dinner, I announce to William that something about cookies is wrong with my computer and will he please come help me. This is a lie. I’m perfectly capable of getting rid of my own cookies.

“Peter can help you,” he says.

“It’s easy, Mom. All you do is go to preferences and—”

“I’ve already tried that,” I interrupt. “It’s more complicated. William, I need you to take a look.”

I follow him into my office and shut the door.

“It’s no big deal,” he says, walking to my desk. “You click on the apple, then go—”

I unbutton my jeans and slip them off.

“To preferences,” he finishes.

“William,” I say, stepping out of my panties.

He turns around and stares at me and says nothing.

“Ta-da.”

He has a strange look on his face. I can’t tell if he’s appalled or turned on.

“I did this for you,” I say.

“You did not,” he says.

“Who else would I do it for?”

What was I thinking? This is completely backfiring. Isn’t sudden bikini-line grooming one of the sure signs that your spouse is cheating on you? I’m not cheating, but I am flirting with a man who is not my husband who has just admitted I bring him pleasure, which has brought me pleasure, which has resulted in a sudden surge in my libido, which has led to the first bikini wax of my life. Does that count? Is it possible he knows?