I'm Just Saying

Early this spring I sat with some friends on a balcony at the beach discussing everything from liposuction to Lost. It was the first evening of a girls’ weekend celebrating Kit’s engagement. At some point, I mentioned that the last person to hit on me was a ninety year old man driving an EZ-Shop around Publix. “He told me I was as cute a booger. I was so thrilled, I almost tongue kissed him right there in the canned fruit aisle. That’s my new demographic. I guess I’m just coming of age.”

“We’re in our thirties, not eighties. You’re talking like I need to diaper you before bed tonight. Besides, coming of age is not about ageing. It’s when you first get your period,” Kit laughed.

“No way,” added Rach, “It’s when you do it for the first time.

The debate bounced its way from debutant balls to Superbad, until finally Suz broke out her iPhone. After a few boop-boop-boops she looked up, “Coming of age means a journey into adulthood.”

Later, much later, Suz and were the only two left on the balcony. I was in the midst of expressing my envy and admiration of anorexic willpower. I was saying how I imagine the anorexics getting together to badmouth the bulimics about the whole bingeing bit. “I know I’d be upset if every time I gave into the temptation of a Hersey’s Kiss I sentenced myself to 90 minutes on the Precor. And the bulimics are somewhere topping off a sixer of calzones and box of Pecan Sandies with a bar of Exlax!” Then I was rudely interrupted.

“What is God’s name is Anna doing?” Suz blurted, squinting over my shoulder into the master bedroom. I turned around and peered through the narrow part in the curtains that framed Anna. She danced energetically and slightly off-rhythm in front of the mirror. She was buttoning up some sort of terrible fuchsia recital costume made of crepe. “Is she by herself?” I asked. “I’m confused.”  We slid open the glass door to investigate. Near the bed, Kit stood over a bulging Hefty bag that appeared to be hatching puffs of sorbet colored fabrics.

“I stopped by my parent’s house on the way down and picked up all my old bridesmaid’s dresses,” she said proudly. Rach and Becca had meanwhile assembled at the other bedroom door. In perfect robotic sync we all turned to Kit, then to Anna (realizing concurrently that she’d had first pick). Like a pack of tipsy jackals, we pounced on the bag ripping into the black plastic, clamoring for the cutest one. Finally the cloud of pastel settled when we each politely settled for the one that fit.

I chose a wrinkled sleeveless frock with an ecru top half and an exceedingly pleated, overtly puffed peach skirt made of drapery. A quick look at my tired, way-past-midnight reflection reminded me of story my friend Sara had told me.

She’d attended a day-after brunch set around the bride’s parent’s pool—the same place where the much larger wedding reception had taken place the night before. The brunch was one of those old-fashioned intimate gatherings attended by only a few out-of-town guests, clergy, and elderly relatives. The calm affair took an unexpected turn when the door to the pool house slowly opened and a bed-headed bridesmaid with raccoon eyes and a crumpled dress meekly emerged followed by a groomsman with his tux tails tucked between his legs.

I’ve been meaning to ask Sara if they just tiptoed off into the azaleas, or if they ordered up mimosas and fixed themselves a plate of melon balls and shrimp and grits. I personally would have suggested the latter. Hell, just laugh it off. You know deep down great-aunt Merna and Pastor Primm think the whole thing is kind of cute. Besides, there’s nothing like a homemade biscuit to sop up the shame of a post-reception romp with some (you think his name might be Roy) guy you met twelve hours ago.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, or Destin condo, the following scene unfolded before me. To my left, Tam (mother of three), wearing the snug top-half of a Waters & Waters ensemble in forest green with braided detailing, circa 1998, helicoptered her arms side-to-side singing, “Fat girl in a little dress. Fat girl in a little dress-eh-ess.” Front and center Becca and Rach (both mothers of two) were shaking it Shakira-style—one in creamy, half-zipped Jim Hjelm number and the other in something I’m suspected to be a grandmother-of-the-bride stowaway. To my right, our crepe-draped dancer, Anna (step-mom of two), softly jumped up and down on the sofa to no particular beat at all. Every few minutes or so she’d stable herself with a slightly wider stance, carefully administer herself a sip of wine using both hands, and then back to the business of bouncing.

When the background began booming the theme from Rocky I and I realized that “getting stronger” was not quite what I was getting. I stealthed into my designated bedroom with a massive water bottle. After a long, and way more violent than probably necessary wrestling match with my puffy peach dress, Dianna Ross kept me from falling asleep with a loud, (yea for her) coming-out announcement. After that, not even my newly fashioned pillow-turban could keep Justin from informing me that he was, indeed, bringing sexy back. When I heard someone yell, “Look! Kit’s doing the worm again!” I smiled and thought, Maybe none of us have really quite come of age just yet.

I began to drift off as my ex-pretend-boyfriend, Jon, belted Living on a Prayer at volume-level 11. And I whispered, “I love my friends. Thank you God for each one of them.”