Heidi thinks I’m way smaller than her. Truth be told, Heidi’s got big boobs and I don‘t, which makes me look smaller than her. Rather than enjoy the compliments of guests at the wedding on how pretty she looked, Heidi greeted each acquaintance with the words, “This is Adena’s dress! Can you believe that I fit into it?” If she had said it, one, two, even three times, that would have been fine. Every time I turned around, there she was pointing at me and telling some stranger, “It’s that tiny girl’s dress, and it fits me! Can you believe it?” I even pulled her aside at one point and said, “Could you please stop saying that?”
“What?” she said. “It’s a compliment!”
We didn’t speak for a few days after that. Years later, I’m still not sure if I should have taken that comment as an insult or a compliment, though the way it made me feel, it’s the former.
Heidi had four wrapped boxes in hand that she hurled at me as she kissed the other girls hello, picked the seat she wanted, grabbed a piece of bread, dipped it in olive oil, and popped it into her mouth.
“Open these three boxes first,” she mumbled through her bread-full mouth while laughing.
I took the biggest one first and carefully unlaced the meticulously tied ornate gold ribbon and matching paper she had decorated the box with.
“Oh, just rip it open already,” she said as she dipped her napkin in some water and went at Susan’s spit-up brooch.
The first box held three T-shirts I’d lent her months before.
The next box held a pair of pants I’d badgered her at least five times to return.
The third, two pairs of my earrings I’d lent her years ago and thought I’d lost.
I looked at her with confusion.
“I wanted to make sure you started off this year with everything your heart desired.”
“Awwww” and “shucks” filled the group, but Heidi was already off the subject, calling the waiter over and ordering a bunch of appetizers from the menu for everyone at the table to share.
Serena arrived next. She kissed everyone hello and took a seat next to me.
“Is this OK?” Serena asked, pointing at her outfit.
“Yes, is this OK?” I asked, pointing at mine.
“I love it,” she said, pointing at mine.
“Are you sure?” I asked, pointing at mine.
“Positive. Are you sure?” she asked pointing at hers.
“I’m sure.”
If Heidi is the one I borrow from the most, Serena is the one I mull over clothes with the most. Serena was introduced into our group of friends along with Heidi in 1992. They were working at the same talent agency. Serena is my straight-up soul sister of shopping. I actually knew what Serena would be wearing when she entered the restaurant that night: black jeans and a black see-through top with a camisole underneath and black boots. I always know what Serena is going to wear and vice versa. We understand each other’s anxiety in the fear of wearing the wrong thing. In all other areas, Serena is a no-nonsense chief of ... well ... serenity If I were on the phone with her and she suddenly had a problem, whatever it was, she’d be calm about it. “You know what, Dean?” she’d say tranquilly from her cell phone. “Let me call you back. There’s a man pointing a gun at me through my car window.” Or, “Wait, let me call you back, my daughters are throwing knives at each other.”
Take the crisis of what to wear to an upcoming event, and it’s mass hysteria.
“Code red! I have a wedding in three weeks!” she’d shriek.
“Black tie, cocktail attire, business attire, or casual?” I’d cry.
“Business attire!” she’d scream. “Who wears business attire to a wedding?”
For the next three weeks, people at work know why my head is cloudy.
“Who has the party to go to?” they’ll ask. “You or Serena?”
In the anxiety of the frenzy, small boutiques, department stores, dressmakers, and fashion experts are shopped and consulted. Magazines and books are researched;
“What?” she said. “It’s a compliment!”
We didn’t speak for a few days after that. Years later, I’m still not sure if I should have taken that comment as an insult or a compliment, though the way it made me feel, it’s the former.
Heidi had four wrapped boxes in hand that she hurled at me as she kissed the other girls hello, picked the seat she wanted, grabbed a piece of bread, dipped it in olive oil, and popped it into her mouth.
“Open these three boxes first,” she mumbled through her bread-full mouth while laughing.
I took the biggest one first and carefully unlaced the meticulously tied ornate gold ribbon and matching paper she had decorated the box with.
“Oh, just rip it open already,” she said as she dipped her napkin in some water and went at Susan’s spit-up brooch.
The first box held three T-shirts I’d lent her months before.
The next box held a pair of pants I’d badgered her at least five times to return.
The third, two pairs of my earrings I’d lent her years ago and thought I’d lost.
I looked at her with confusion.
“I wanted to make sure you started off this year with everything your heart desired.”
“Awwww” and “shucks” filled the group, but Heidi was already off the subject, calling the waiter over and ordering a bunch of appetizers from the menu for everyone at the table to share.
Serena arrived next. She kissed everyone hello and took a seat next to me.
“Is this OK?” Serena asked, pointing at her outfit.
“Yes, is this OK?” I asked, pointing at mine.
“I love it,” she said, pointing at mine.
“Are you sure?” I asked, pointing at mine.
“Positive. Are you sure?” she asked pointing at hers.
“I’m sure.”
If Heidi is the one I borrow from the most, Serena is the one I mull over clothes with the most. Serena was introduced into our group of friends along with Heidi in 1992. They were working at the same talent agency. Serena is my straight-up soul sister of shopping. I actually knew what Serena would be wearing when she entered the restaurant that night: black jeans and a black see-through top with a camisole underneath and black boots. I always know what Serena is going to wear and vice versa. We understand each other’s anxiety in the fear of wearing the wrong thing. In all other areas, Serena is a no-nonsense chief of ... well ... serenity If I were on the phone with her and she suddenly had a problem, whatever it was, she’d be calm about it. “You know what, Dean?” she’d say tranquilly from her cell phone. “Let me call you back. There’s a man pointing a gun at me through my car window.” Or, “Wait, let me call you back, my daughters are throwing knives at each other.”
Take the crisis of what to wear to an upcoming event, and it’s mass hysteria.
“Code red! I have a wedding in three weeks!” she’d shriek.
“Black tie, cocktail attire, business attire, or casual?” I’d cry.
“Business attire!” she’d scream. “Who wears business attire to a wedding?”
For the next three weeks, people at work know why my head is cloudy.
“Who has the party to go to?” they’ll ask. “You or Serena?”
In the anxiety of the frenzy, small boutiques, department stores, dressmakers, and fashion experts are shopped and consulted. Magazines and books are researched;
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