On the Rocks(9)
As a little girl, I dreamed of getting engaged, though I guess that doesn’t make me any different from any other little girl on the planet who used to wear a pillowcase on her head and pretend it was a veil. I don’t know why girls dream of wedding days the way boys dream of playing professional baseball, but for whatever reason, I was obsessed with the thought that somewhere in my future a day would come when I’d be able to wear a pretty white dress and look like a princess. Deep down, we all want the fairy tale, and if I have to fault anyone for being able to single-handedly combat all of the progress of the women’s movement and still convince little girls that the proverbial dream life begins at the end of an aisle standing next to a man, I blame Walt Disney. Feminism may have come a long way since our grandmothers’ time, but Gloria Steinem is no match for Cinderella, which I’m sure is hugely frustrating for her. It has to be painful admitting that your biggest adversary is actually a cartoon wearing one shoe whose only friends are a pack of mice. Whatever. As far as I’m concerned, Cinderella can suck it.
Since everything happened, I had turned myself into a hermit, rarely leaving my apartment for anything other than my walk to and from work. I saw no reason to leave when I could have food, movies, dry cleaning, and alcohol delivered. I had no interest in being out there anymore with normal people who had normal relationships and didn’t have to wear a big hat and sunglasses every time they walked by Vera Wang to keep from being recognized by the salesladies. I was pretty sure if they saw me they were going to chase me down the street and hit me with a bill for Grace’s champagne. I was fairly certain they didn’t appreciate customers who downed their Mo?t and then left an expensive gown in a heap on the floor while they bolted from the store in tears, but in my defense, at the time, that was not how I saw that afternoon ending.
Fate can be a finicky bitch.
After that I just gave up. I know I probably shouldn’t have, but I resigned myself to a life alone, broke, and, apparently, fat. Not exactly how I pictured my thirties starting out. I don’t know what I did to anger the universe so much that it felt the need to sucker-punch me the way it did, but I figured there wasn’t much point in worrying about it anymore. Instead, I locked myself in my apartment, let my bills pile up, let my friendships wither away, and let myself dry up like a prune. It might not have been the best of coping mechanisms, but the sad truth was, my apartment was the only place left on earth where I felt safe. The only way the universe could screw with me in there was if it put H?agen-Dazs out of business or blew up my cable box.
When Grace called me earlier that week begging me to meet her to do some shopping, I hesitated, much preferring to stay home alone than brave the masses, but eventually I caved. I knew that getting out of my apartment was a good idea, especially since my couch now had a permanent indentation from the excessive amount of time my fat ass had spent on it, and I couldn’t afford to buy a new one. It’s comical what motivated me to do things these days.
I took a quick shower and left my building, glancing nervously over both shoulders like I was expecting someone to jump out of the bushes and assassinate me. I walked through the Back Bay and met Grace on the corner of Newbury and Dartmouth Streets. As soon as I saw her, I knew she was going to ambush me with something. Maybe looking for assassins wasn’t as crazy as it seemed: maybe this was like the mob, and the people who came to kill you were pretending to be your friends. I stared at her, trying to read her mind before she said anything. Grace had no poker face whatsoever.
“What?” I asked as soon as I hugged her hello. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Why do you think I’m going to do something to you? I’m not the enemy, Abby, remember? I want to help you.”
“I don’t need help,” I lied.
“I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve left your house in the last six months for anything other than work, and you just entered Ben and Jerry’s ‘Name a New Ice Cream’ contest with a flavor called Flabby Abby. You definitely need help,” she said as she smoothed her long auburn hair behind her ears.
“I thought it would be cool to name the new ice cream! I know I’ve been in a bit of a funk, but you’ll be happy to know that I went for a mini-run this morning. I’m trying to get back into an exercise routine. And for the record, I tried the frozen yogurt, but it doesn’t taste the same. People tell you it does, but it doesn’t.”
“This has nothing to do with your weight. You’d look great at any size.”
“Thanks. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Why am I here, Grace? Seriously. I thought we were going shopping.” I didn’t mean to sound impatient, but I felt like I was being trapped in some kind of half-assed therapy session.
“I’ve decided you need an intervention. I’m afraid I’m going to come over one day and find you hanging by a bridal veil from your shower rod. I’m not letting you wallow anymore. It’s not healthy.”
“Neither is housing a pint of ice cream every day, but I’m still doing that.”
“Exactly. I want the old Abby back. I don’t like this new antisocial, depressed version. If you keep this up, you won’t need clothespins to hold up that Vera Wang sample size,” she joked, the way only a best friend can.
“In case you forgot, I’m no longer in need of Vera. We had a falling-out. I don’t plan on talking to her or her giant dresses ever again.”