A Little Change of Face
Read A Little Change of Face Online
Authors: Lauren Baratz-Logsted
Crossing the Line
“A terrific readâa story that is dryly funny, brightly written and emotionally satisfying.”
âPeter Lefcourt, author of
Eleven Karens
“A delight! Buckle up and hang on for a joyride with Jane, an admirably eccentric heroine. This fast-paced, fun-filled novel about babies and breaking the rules brims with laughter, love and a unique and buoyant wisdom.”
âNancy Thayer, author of
The Hot Flash Club
“Chick lit with a twist!”
âMeg Cabot, author of
The Princess Diaries
The Thin Pink Line
“Faking itâhilariously⦠Wonderfully funny debut with a fine sense of the absurd and a flair for comic characterization.”
â
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)
“Baratz-Logsted's premise is hilarious and original.”
â
Publishers Weekly
“Here written with humor and scathing honesty, is the diary of a (mad) pregnant woman chronicled with acid glee by Lauren Baratz-Logsted in a debut novel to share with every girlfriend you know before, during or after the baby comes. It's a winner!”
âAdriana Trigiani, author of
Big Stone Gap
“A sassy and beguiling comedy of reproduction that proves once and for all that a woman can indeed be half-pregnant. Bridget Jones is snorting with laughter and wondering why she didn't think of it.”
âKaren Karbo, author of
Motherhood Made a Man Out of Me
LAUREN BARATZ-LOGSTED
To my husband, Greg Logsted, for half a lifetime's worth
of love and patience above and beyond
Thanks, as always, to Margaret O'Neill Marbury, for being a joy of an editor to work with, and to the rest of the RDI team. Special thanks this time to Annelise Robey for being the kind of agent a girl can really love.
I'd also like to thank Sue Estabrook and Lynn Kanter for being great first readers and great friends. I don't know what I ever did to deserve such support and encouragement, but I'll take it.
Another special thank-you goes to librarians everywhere, since librarians form the inspiration for this book. In particular, I'd like to thank Danbury Public Library, my current hometown library, and Bethel Public Library, which figures prominently here: I hope you're all in your lovely new quarters by the time you read this.
Thank you to my family and friends for loving me and for not leaving me over my being the self-involved person I am.
Finally, thank you to Greg and Jackie for everything.
“C
ome here often?”
“God, what a line,” seethed Pam, who happened to be my best friend as well as being a world-class seether. “Yes, she does,” she added, summarily turning away Bachelor #1 from our table, “but not to meet people like you.”
“Buy you a drink?” Bachelor #2 asked me, somewhat timidly I thought, but maybe he'd already seen #1 get shot down by Pam. Despite his timidity, he was steely in his determination not to make eye contact with her, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on me.
Pam tapped his elbow. “Can't you see she already has one?” Pam asked him with the kind of overly sweet tone of voice that was petrifying in its Stepford extreme.
That was all Bachelor #2 could take; off he slouched.
“Now, I
know
I don't know you from anywhereâ¦
yet
â¦but I'd sure likeâ”
“Get OUT!”
screeched Pam, finishing off Bachelor #3 before he could even finish off his first sentence.
“Gee,” I said ruefully, sucking off the vodka from one of the ice cubes that had been clinking around in the bottom of my empty glass, “you could have at least let me accept a drink.”
“Oh, right, and then sit here for yet
another
Saturday night, watching one man after another fall in love with you? No, thank you!”
“I'd ask you who pissed in your Wheaties, but somehow I'm getting the impression it was me.”
“You know, Scarlett, it's not always that easy being your best friend.” For a world-class seether, Pam was looking awfully deflated.
And, for the record: yes, my mother
did
have the balls to name me Scarlett.
“Scarlett O'Hara, the Scarlet Womanâokay, so maybe that only has one
t,
but stillâyou're going to love it once you get older!”
I'd heard this repeatedly for thirty-nine yearsâi.e., the entire length of time I'd been aliveâall thirty-nine of which I'd spent hating my name.
“You're going to love it one day! I promise you!”
my mother had promised.
As if.
With forty beginning to stare me in the face, along with what friends were warning me was going to be one hell of a midlife crisisâwhich I preferred to think of as an LRWS (Life Reassessment Way Station)âit seemed increasingly less likely that my mother would see her promise fulfilled. Of course, with forty beginning to stare me in the face, it was probably also a good time for me to begin thinking about giving up using the phrase
“as if,”
but I supposed I could always worry about that another day.
But back to our story.
I'd rather have a seething Pam than a deflated Pam any day of the week.
Her
deflation was deflating
me.
“Why, Pam?” I asked, deflated, all seriousness now. “Why isn't it always easy being my best friend?”
“Because you'reâ¦you'reâ¦you'reâ¦
you.
”
“That's not helpful.”
“Fine,” Pam seethed one last time, seething at me for once. “Did you ever wonder if you'd still get so much male attention if you weren't so goddamned pretty, if you weren't so goddamned thin, if you didn't have those twoâ” and here she gave voice to what I had secretly suspected most people thought of first when they looked at me, but hoped was not the case “âspectacular breasts?”
And that's basically how it all got started.
A
ctually, Pam was wrong about a couple of things.
I wasn't “so goddamned pretty,” and I wasn't “so goddamned thin.”
(Okay, so maybe I did have spectacular breasts, but still. Besides, that was a whole other issue, and one that even sometimes bothered me.)
Regard my face for a moment, if you would, please, a face that will henceforth be known as Exhibit A: Note the long dark hair, the root color of which currently needs assistance from the bottle it's been getting assistance from for over a decade, the assistance made necessary by the prematurely gray hair that, rather than being prematurely seductive, had caused coworkers to run shrieking from my path. Note (admittedly pretty) dark eyes beneath brows that have passed their expiration date for plucking. Note the slightly imperfect nose (erring on the side of largeness), the slightly
imperfect chin (erring on the side of pointiness), the slightly imperfect cheeâ
No, actually,
that
would be a lie. My cheekbones kick butt.
Yes, I do know that this is coming perilously close to tipping into that odiously annoying territory that has been heretofore uniquely occupied by that hair-product commercial that used to run all the time years ago, the one in which the actress says “Don't hate me because I'm beautiful,” making the viewer long for technology to be advanced enough so that the actress would be able to hear it when viewers everywhere shout back at their TVs: “We don't hate you because you're beautiful! We hate you because the you that you are in this commercial is
the single most annoying woman IN THE WORLD!
” I do know how close I am coming to that awful-awful place, but please bear with me.
Regard the body now for a second moment, please, the body to appropriately be called Exhibit B: Note the lack of significant height (a smidgen below five feet, but just enough to make claiming a full five feet qualify me as a breaker of one of the Ten Commandments), which, when combined with the genetic legacy of good skin, is what makes people always howl, “Omigod! You don't
look
that
old!
” whenever I say I'm thirty-nine. (That and “Omigod! You don't look that short!” and “Omigod! You don't look Jewish!” are the three phrases I've heard repeatedly all my life. And, yes, my full name is Scarlett Jane Stein; so sue me.) Note, also, the all-American flaw: the slight swell of lower belly that nothing short of lipo and a tuck would ever eradicate.
And, when I say all-American flaw, I really do mean that all American women have that flaw. I mean, come on: After you rule out those who've been sucked or sewed, and then you take away the actresses/models/overly wealthy who
have had actual ribs removed, who do you have left? Oh, okay. So maybe you have the growing legion of anorexics and anorexic-wannabes; but after them, who do you have left? Answer:
the rest of us.
You're left with the rest of us and our, at minimum, slightly swelling lower bellies.
And, yes, I am aware that I have much to be thankful for in that I'm located at the minimum end of the spectrum of swelling.
True, back in high school, I'd had one of those freakish metabolisms that necessitated my going home after school and eating a banana split just so that I wouldn't get any thinner (Pam would have really hated me if she'd known me thenâ¦
and I was not bulimic!
), but those days were long gone and I had finally joined the female race. If I wanted to still fit into my size 6s, 4s and 2s (which one was always dependent upon mitigating factors like time of the month, emotional need for Ben & Jerry's, which jeans I was wearing, etc.), and I did, then I needed to walk regularly, press weights regularly and engage for the short term in whatever latest exercise fad came down the pike.
Overall, though, not bad: This was the body that Pilates had built for me.
I guess then that what had rankled so much wasn't Pam's implication that I had a reasonably good body, because I guess I did, so much as the undertone that had suggested it was some kind of an unearned perk. I'd done my sweating, I'd done my pumping and, as a result, gravity was yet to become my sworn enemy. Okay, so maybe I hadn't earned my face, but I'd earned my body.
Time to cut to the chase.
(Besides, we can talk about my breasts later.)
In short, then, while the only runways I'd ever been on
had all involved planes, no one on the beach had ever begged me to put more clothes on. Objectively speaking, on bad days, I was acceptable; on good days, I was substantially more than.
The basic building blocks for Exhibit A and Exhibit B, with the exception of the color-enhanced roots and the weights-at-the-gym flab-free upper arms, were what God had started me out with in life. Just like the spectacular breasts, I hadn't earned those building blocks; they were with me when I arrived. Exhibit A and Exhibit B had been with me my whole life so far.
Exhibit A and Exhibit B were what the world first saw whenever they saw me. (
Untrue,
that nasty little voice in my head, the one I heard upon occasion, niggled.
What the world sees first about you are your breasts. You remember, don't you? Exhibit C?)
Exhibit A and Exhibit B were the face and body I took to work with me every single day.
