Okay, I have tried to call my friend S. for three days. There’s no answer at her house and she doesn’t pick up her cell. She doesn’t call me back when I leave a message. I don’t think she’s mad at me. So, the only plausible explanation for her disappearance is that she is having “work” done (by “work,”I mean a procedure like: liposuction, an eye lift or micro-dermabrasion) and that now, she is in seclusion, swathed in cotton bandages, waiting for the swelling to go down.
My friends and I sometimes gripe about our gray hair, our muffin tops (mine’s blueberry), our varicose veins and our laugh lines. We rest our elbows on the tiny tables at Starbucks and gently pull on our faces. until we look like we’re in a wind tunnel. “How’s this?” we ask. “You don’t have any wrinkles,” is the correct response.
We also have a pact, at least I thought we had a pact, that no one will do anything to enhance their appearance (this includes lifts, tucks, resurfacing or buying cosmetics that can’t be found at Walgreen’s) without giving
everybody me advance warning.
Surprise! A package from UPS! Last week, in a moment of disgust over the living room chair that is ripped and covered with dog slobber stains, I ordered a slipcover- and then totally forgot about it. Until just now.
“Tuck, excess fabric into arm and side crevices to create smooth lines.” If only it was that easy.