relationship. Sometimes I accept it and actually seek it out. Most times, it really grates my nerves.
We’ll be in a store, for example, and I’ll pick up an item. “What do you think of this?” I’ll ask her.
“It’s great!” she’ll say. “You want me to get it for you?”
Now, I have a job; I’m not destitute. Why does she feel the need to pay for my lavender soap just because, fifteen years earlier, I comforted her when she found out her boyfriend was a drug addict? She does this constantly Don’t get me wrong, I love this woman and it’s a beautiful thing, her always wanting to do something special, but as the chick that has already flown three thousand miles from the nest and given her parents’ credit cards back, let me see the error in my ways, realizing the stupidity of buying a forty dollar bar of soap.
Back at the restaurant, Felicia handed me the Prada box as I gave her a sigh and said, “Honey, why would you do that?”
“Don’t get mad at me,” she said, curling her short auburn tresses behind her ear, “I just figured birthdays only come around once a year.”
Heidi entered next and, as usual, she was a tornado of electric energy. A former ball-busting talent agent, Heidi and Susan met through work and after a drink with us one night, she became an instant part of our clique. Eventually, Heidi left her job to become a stay-at-home mom to her three children. With all the vigor she put into being an agent, Heidi put that same energy into her family and friends. If you didn’t know it, you’d think she had three arms. She’s the soccer-nom version of a chef at Benihana. Heidi can whip up the most gorgeous dinner party in seconds flat while teaching one of her three children the ABC’s and talking on the phone with me, giving the most excellent advice on how to handle my boyfriend du jour. The same can be said for her wardrobe. I’ve always admired Heidi’s wardrobe. She’s comfortable yet chic—a jeans-with-a-frilly-top, dress-pants-with-a-T-shirt kind of gal. Heidi is the one I borrow clothes from the most and vice versa, though no matter what, there’s usually a problem, a fight ensues, and we never learn from the mistake.
I once lent Heidi my brand-new Donna Karan black knit slip dress. She was really sweet and had had it dry-cleaned, but when it came back, something in the fabric had burned away and the dress became transparent. For lack of anything else, I decided to wear it to Julie Pelagatti’s rehearsal dinner back in Philadelphia. A week later, Julie called me, frantic, saying that since I had gone sans bra, every picture that was taken of me showed my breasts—nipples and all—in full view. I gave Heidi a lot of objectionable guilt over that. After all, it wasn’t her fault, it was the dry cleaners’. I got mine, however, when I decided to borrow her wool Burberry shawl, this amazingly warm yummy-thick wrap with the Burberry plaid all over it in shades of brown that could dress up any outfit while giving you the utmost in comfort. When she lent it to me sometime in February, I kept it much longer than I promised. When I finally decided to give it back in June, I thought it was only right to have it dry-cleaned.
Upon presenting it, she looked at it and said, “Now we’re even; the dry cleaner got the fringe all frayed!”
Which it was. Not terribly, but a bit frayed nonetheless. And I said, “So you don’t want it anymore?” thinking about my glamorous future in fully owning that scrumptious piece of coziness.
“Of course I want it,” she grumbled, “but just know that when you feel like bringing up that stupid see-through Donna Karan dress story, you ruined something of mine, too!”
So now we’re even.
One story I still have in my guilt files, though, happened at our friend Rachel’s wedding, when Heidi borrowed another dress of mine (which we both agreed she would not be getting dry-cleaned upon return). I’m a little smaller than Heidi, though
We’ll be in a store, for example, and I’ll pick up an item. “What do you think of this?” I’ll ask her.
“It’s great!” she’ll say. “You want me to get it for you?”
Now, I have a job; I’m not destitute. Why does she feel the need to pay for my lavender soap just because, fifteen years earlier, I comforted her when she found out her boyfriend was a drug addict? She does this constantly Don’t get me wrong, I love this woman and it’s a beautiful thing, her always wanting to do something special, but as the chick that has already flown three thousand miles from the nest and given her parents’ credit cards back, let me see the error in my ways, realizing the stupidity of buying a forty dollar bar of soap.
Back at the restaurant, Felicia handed me the Prada box as I gave her a sigh and said, “Honey, why would you do that?”
“Don’t get mad at me,” she said, curling her short auburn tresses behind her ear, “I just figured birthdays only come around once a year.”
Heidi entered next and, as usual, she was a tornado of electric energy. A former ball-busting talent agent, Heidi and Susan met through work and after a drink with us one night, she became an instant part of our clique. Eventually, Heidi left her job to become a stay-at-home mom to her three children. With all the vigor she put into being an agent, Heidi put that same energy into her family and friends. If you didn’t know it, you’d think she had three arms. She’s the soccer-nom version of a chef at Benihana. Heidi can whip up the most gorgeous dinner party in seconds flat while teaching one of her three children the ABC’s and talking on the phone with me, giving the most excellent advice on how to handle my boyfriend du jour. The same can be said for her wardrobe. I’ve always admired Heidi’s wardrobe. She’s comfortable yet chic—a jeans-with-a-frilly-top, dress-pants-with-a-T-shirt kind of gal. Heidi is the one I borrow clothes from the most and vice versa, though no matter what, there’s usually a problem, a fight ensues, and we never learn from the mistake.
I once lent Heidi my brand-new Donna Karan black knit slip dress. She was really sweet and had had it dry-cleaned, but when it came back, something in the fabric had burned away and the dress became transparent. For lack of anything else, I decided to wear it to Julie Pelagatti’s rehearsal dinner back in Philadelphia. A week later, Julie called me, frantic, saying that since I had gone sans bra, every picture that was taken of me showed my breasts—nipples and all—in full view. I gave Heidi a lot of objectionable guilt over that. After all, it wasn’t her fault, it was the dry cleaners’. I got mine, however, when I decided to borrow her wool Burberry shawl, this amazingly warm yummy-thick wrap with the Burberry plaid all over it in shades of brown that could dress up any outfit while giving you the utmost in comfort. When she lent it to me sometime in February, I kept it much longer than I promised. When I finally decided to give it back in June, I thought it was only right to have it dry-cleaned.
Upon presenting it, she looked at it and said, “Now we’re even; the dry cleaner got the fringe all frayed!”
Which it was. Not terribly, but a bit frayed nonetheless. And I said, “So you don’t want it anymore?” thinking about my glamorous future in fully owning that scrumptious piece of coziness.
“Of course I want it,” she grumbled, “but just know that when you feel like bringing up that stupid see-through Donna Karan dress story, you ruined something of mine, too!”
So now we’re even.
One story I still have in my guilt files, though, happened at our friend Rachel’s wedding, when Heidi borrowed another dress of mine (which we both agreed she would not be getting dry-cleaned upon return). I’m a little smaller than Heidi, though
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