friends’ closets are ransacked for the perfect outfit. Notes are taken, clothing is tried and retried, backup safety outfits are bought and, when no outfit is set in stone, frustration sets in and an incident that happened years ago is undoubtedly brought up.
Years ago, as Serena would tell you, I made a faux pas. I still don’t think I blundered, but when the frustration hits, she never fails to bring it up. For example, we’ve finally found what might seem to be the perfect business attire outfit.
“Are you sure about it, or are you just getting tired?” she asked.
“I’m sure.”
“Are you positively sure?”
“I’m positively sure.”
“SURE?”
“SURE!”
“BECAUSE REMEMBER THAT TIME?” she’d shriek, her long auburn hair becoming disheveled and unusually out of place.
This is what happened: Serena and I were both attending an awards ceremony, and because I had been to the same event the year before, I used my previous experience and said, “Everyone wore short dresses; don’t even bother looking at the long ones.”
When we got to the ceremony, I wore a short dress, Serena wore a short dress, the woman sitting next to me at my table was wearing a short dress, each of the women accepting awards wore short dresses, and if I had known this incident was going to affect me ten years later, I would have taken a count of the rest of the room and had it notarized, because Serena remembers that night otherwise and I’ve never heard the end of it.
“REMEMBER THAT TIME? EVERYONE WORE LONG DRESSES!” she’ll say. “I FELT COMPLETELY UNDERDRESSED!”
“YES, I REMEMBER THAT TIME!” I’d yell back at her, “BUT I’M TELLING YOU NOW, THE OUTFIT YOU CURRENTLY HAVE ON IS BUSINESS CASUAL! NOW BUY THE STINKING OUTFIT AND LET’S BE DONE WITH IT!”
She’d buy the dress and, once again, peace would be restored in Los Angeles. I’d go back to my life; Serena would go back to hers.
And then, as it usually happens, twenty minutes before the wedding, Serena will call and say in her standard composed voice, “You know, I think I’m just going to wear that ruby dress I got last year. You know, the one with the frilly cap sleeves?”
A week later, I’d go to my mailbox and see an eggshell-colored envelope with calligraphic print on it.
The alarm sounds once again and Serena kisses her husband and children good-bye.
“What kind of attire did she say the invitation gave?” her husband would ask as she threw together an overnight bag of possible outfits for me from her own closet.
“Casual black tie,” she’d say, then drive off to my apartment.
Rachel, the last of my five, entered, typically, last. I actually knew of Rachel, since we were both from Philadelphia, but we had gone to different schools, so while we knew of each other, we were never friends. It wasn’t until 1992 that I got acquainted with her. She was the roommate of Susan’s boyfriend at the time. Rachel became our sixth in the clique due to the fact that she was always able to report the whereabouts of Susan’s boyfriend. The boyfriend is long gone, but we kept Rachel. Sometimes I joke that I met Rachel last because she was stuck in some store trying to figure out if she should buy the same T-shirt in white or white. Before anyone starts to think that Rachel’s problem is the same problem that Serena and I have, you must understand it is enormously different. With Serena and I, the problem is only reserved for special occasions. With Rachel, however, I don’t know how she fit the time in to have a powerful job, get married, and have a baby. I always say she’s lucky she’s got gorgeous natural ruby-colored hair. Otherwise, she’d never get out of a hair salon because she’d never be able to decide on a new color.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, handing me a gift. “I just couldn’t decide what to get you.”
We all knew. If Rachel was going to buy a simple birthday gift, knowing our reservation was at eight, she
Years ago, as Serena would tell you, I made a faux pas. I still don’t think I blundered, but when the frustration hits, she never fails to bring it up. For example, we’ve finally found what might seem to be the perfect business attire outfit.
“Are you sure about it, or are you just getting tired?” she asked.
“I’m sure.”
“Are you positively sure?”
“I’m positively sure.”
“SURE?”
“SURE!”
“BECAUSE REMEMBER THAT TIME?” she’d shriek, her long auburn hair becoming disheveled and unusually out of place.
This is what happened: Serena and I were both attending an awards ceremony, and because I had been to the same event the year before, I used my previous experience and said, “Everyone wore short dresses; don’t even bother looking at the long ones.”
When we got to the ceremony, I wore a short dress, Serena wore a short dress, the woman sitting next to me at my table was wearing a short dress, each of the women accepting awards wore short dresses, and if I had known this incident was going to affect me ten years later, I would have taken a count of the rest of the room and had it notarized, because Serena remembers that night otherwise and I’ve never heard the end of it.
“REMEMBER THAT TIME? EVERYONE WORE LONG DRESSES!” she’ll say. “I FELT COMPLETELY UNDERDRESSED!”
“YES, I REMEMBER THAT TIME!” I’d yell back at her, “BUT I’M TELLING YOU NOW, THE OUTFIT YOU CURRENTLY HAVE ON IS BUSINESS CASUAL! NOW BUY THE STINKING OUTFIT AND LET’S BE DONE WITH IT!”
She’d buy the dress and, once again, peace would be restored in Los Angeles. I’d go back to my life; Serena would go back to hers.
And then, as it usually happens, twenty minutes before the wedding, Serena will call and say in her standard composed voice, “You know, I think I’m just going to wear that ruby dress I got last year. You know, the one with the frilly cap sleeves?”
A week later, I’d go to my mailbox and see an eggshell-colored envelope with calligraphic print on it.
The alarm sounds once again and Serena kisses her husband and children good-bye.
“What kind of attire did she say the invitation gave?” her husband would ask as she threw together an overnight bag of possible outfits for me from her own closet.
“Casual black tie,” she’d say, then drive off to my apartment.
Rachel, the last of my five, entered, typically, last. I actually knew of Rachel, since we were both from Philadelphia, but we had gone to different schools, so while we knew of each other, we were never friends. It wasn’t until 1992 that I got acquainted with her. She was the roommate of Susan’s boyfriend at the time. Rachel became our sixth in the clique due to the fact that she was always able to report the whereabouts of Susan’s boyfriend. The boyfriend is long gone, but we kept Rachel. Sometimes I joke that I met Rachel last because she was stuck in some store trying to figure out if she should buy the same T-shirt in white or white. Before anyone starts to think that Rachel’s problem is the same problem that Serena and I have, you must understand it is enormously different. With Serena and I, the problem is only reserved for special occasions. With Rachel, however, I don’t know how she fit the time in to have a powerful job, get married, and have a baby. I always say she’s lucky she’s got gorgeous natural ruby-colored hair. Otherwise, she’d never get out of a hair salon because she’d never be able to decide on a new color.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, handing me a gift. “I just couldn’t decide what to get you.”
We all knew. If Rachel was going to buy a simple birthday gift, knowing our reservation was at eight, she
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