Then, one day, Erica met the love of her life. Well, the second love of her life. Her son even liked him. I could go on, but this story isn’t about Erica. You need to know about her, though. If you get to know me well enough, you’ll hear plenty of great Erica stories.
Together, we’d been visiting this same nail salon for years. It shares a parking lot with Target, Marshall’s, and a few other great spots where we could enjoy a full day of therapy.
I stepped up into the chair next to Erica. “Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t get any work done. Oh, my God.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Erica said, both of us knowing she was full of it. When I’d first met her, she had been so prim and proper, but after her divorce, she had done whatever she’d wanted to do. It was like her husband had kept her on a leash, and when she broke free, let me tell you, she broke free. She’d vacationed in Vegas by herself. She’d go on rock ’n’ roll cruises. She’d spend tons of money on makeup, perfume, and any number of girlie things. And she’d gotten a few body parts tucked, pulled, and stretched, if you know what I mean. She hadn’t gone overboard, but she was getting there.Between her alimony, child support, and her new profession of selling real estate, she apparently had plenty of spending money on hand.
Erica was my age, but with those nip and tuck procedures she pointlessly denied, some subtle changes had been made to her appearance, and I suddenly realized I’d been wrong in my earlier assessment that the aging process can’t be slowed down. Looking at Erica, it was evident that at least the appearance of slowing down the aging process can be achieved, but I thought it could still come back to bite her in the end—perhaps with a vengeance. I had no intentions of having plastic surgery.
Besides having read about people actually dying as the result of plastic surgery procedures having gone wrong, I worried that I’d turn out to look like one of those celebrities who’d had one too many procedures and showed up on the covers of magazines on the racks in the grocery store checkout lanes. They looked younger, but they might as well have tattoos on their faces that read:I had work done because I wasn’t comfortable with who I truly am.
Some of them almost looked like caricatures of their former selves, because the procedures had been so badly botched. So is it really necessary to blurt out or deny the “work?” Don’t you love the word “work” in this instance? There’s something so trendy about it. No, I don’t get “work” done, but I don’t judge anyone who does. You do you, as Jasper likes to say.
Erica was dyeing her hair. I’d seen those grays disappear a few years ago, giving way to a much darker brown. Sometimes she wore too much makeup, which was another thing I wasn’t afraid to point out. She must have been more terrified than I was of getting old. I guess she’d already gotten a feel for divorce and had no intention of letting that happen again. Her “work” had been tasteful so far, and I so hoped for her sake that she didn’t lose control.
“I haven’t seen a forehead with fewer wrinkles since Jasper was four years old,” I said.
Erica fluttered her brown eyes. “The dear Lord blessed me with fine skin.”
I rolled my eyes. “And a very fine doctor.”
She smiled devilishly. “Veryfine, indeed. If my new husband ever leaves, I know who I’m going after next. The man has magical hands the size of tennis rackets.” I knew she was joking, so I let her cheating reference slide.
One of the technicians welcomed me with a glass of sparkling wine. Do I sound like I drink too much? I feel like I’m oversharing my weaker habits. For the record, I used to go to the gym—occasionally. But why go to the gym? If I lost any more weight, Rory wouldn’t “see” me because I’d disappear. Oh, I meditated—as in, I used to. I read self-help books—as in, I read them in college. You see, I was healthy—as in, healthier than some. I picked Big Apple Red nail polish, and the technician went to work.
Turning to Erica, I said, “Dare I ask how your love life is going?” I already knew her answer would make me jealous, but not like Kim-in-Rory’s-office jealous. It was okay to be a tad envious of your best friend. Erica smiled at me with explosive eyes. I waved my hand at her. “Maybe I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Oh, you do, my friend. You do. I can’t believe I’ve gone all these years without satisfaction. Like Mick-Jagger satisfaction. Honey, he does things to me that, honest to God, make me shiver. If I keep screaming like I do, there’s a good chance we’ll be kicked out of our neighborhood.”
I shook my head. Did I need to hear this right now? “Well, you need to tone it down. You look like you’re having sexallthe time. Might be time to act your age.” I made a motion of twisting a knob to the left. “Dial it down a notch before one of us women in our sexless marriages violently kills you.”
“Match.com. What can I say? Only one click away.”
“One click and a divorce away.”
Erica turned toward me. “How is the Dream Killer, anyway? Still a hard ‘no’ on the bed-and-breakfast?”
“There’s no more discussion. He didn’t even leave room to revisit the topic.”
“The Dream Killer strikes again!”
You can see why Rory didn’t like her. Because she sure as hell didn’t like him.
“I am working on chickens, though.”
Erica rolled her eyes. “You’ve been talking about chickens for forever.”
“You know how he is. I have to ease him into these big decisions.”
“Big decisions? Getting a few hens is a big decision? I wouldn’t even ask him. Find a carpenter—might as well get a cute one—tell him what you want, and while he builds the coop, go find some hens.”
I wanted to say thinking like that was why she was divorced. Not only was that not true though, but my words would have been plain rude. We don’t have boundaries, but we tried to respect each other.
“He thinks I couldn’t handle them dying,” I admitted.
Erica cocked her head. “He has a point there.”
“Yeah, but I’ll figure it out. You can’t live if you let the fear of death stand in the way.”
