Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For (24 page)

I knew it would be bad. The last time I’d gone bathing suit shopping, I came home and spent the night crying on the shoulders of my good buddy José Cuervo. But I never dreamed it would be this bad.

For starters, I made the mistake of going to a discount clothing store called the Bargain Barn. My checkbook was going through a particularly anemic phase at the time, and I’d heard about what great prices this place had.

What I hadn’t heard, however, was that there were no private dressing rooms at the Bargain Barn. That’s right. Everyone, I saw to my dismay, had to change in one ghastly mirror-lined communal dressing room, under the pitiless glare of fluorescent lights, where every cellulite bump looked like a crater in the Grand Canyon.

It’s bad enough having to look at your body flaws in a private dressing room, but to have them exposed in a roomful of other women—I still shudder at the memory.

Making matters worse was the fact that I was surrounded by skinny young things easing their wash-board tummies into size twos and fours. I once read that sixty percent of American women are a size twelve or larger. Those sixty percent obviously didn’t shop at the Bargain Barn. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, this was L.A., the liposuction capital of the world, where it’s practically against the law to wear a size twelve or larger.

I grabbed a handful of bathing suits, ignoring the bikinis and mini-thongs in favor of the more matronly models with built-in bras and enough industrial-strength spandex to rein in a herd of cattle.

I jammed my body into one hideous swimsuit after another, wondering what had ever possessed me to come up with this insane water aerobics idea. I tried on striped suits and florals; tankinis and skirtinis; blousons and sarongs. No matter what the style, the end result was always the same: I looked like crap.

One suit promised it would take inches of ugly flab from my waist. And indeed it did. Trouble was, it shoved that ugly flab right down to my hips, which had all the flab they needed, thank you very much.

I’d just tried on the last of the bathing suits, a striped tankini that made me look like a pregnant convict, when suddenly I heard someone moaning in dismay.

I looked over and saw a plump thirtysomething woman struggling into a pair of spandex bike shorts and matching halter top. At last. Someone with actual hips and thighs and tummy. One of the sixty percenters!

She surveyed herself in the mirror and sighed, her cheeks flushed from the exertion of tugging on all that spandex.

“My God,” she sighed. “I look like the Pillsbury Doughboy with cleavage.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I look like the doughboy with cleavage, retaining water.”

“Oh, yeah?” she countered. “I look like the doughboy with cleavage, retaining water on a bad hair day.”

She ran her fingers through her blunt-cut hair and grimaced.

“Would you believe this is a size large?” she said, tugging at the shorts. “Who is this large on? Barbie?”

“Well, I’ve had it.” I wriggled out of the tankini and started to get dressed. “I’m outta here.”

I’d long since given up my insane water aerobics idea. No. I’d take up something far less humiliating. Like walking. And the first place I intended to walk to was Ben & Jerry’s for a restorative dose of Chunky Monkey.

“I’m going to drown my sorrows in ice cream.”

“Great idea,” said my fellow sufferer. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

And so, ten minutes later, we were sitting across from each other at Ben & Jerry’s slurping Chunky Monkey ice cream cones.

“I’m Pam, by the way,” my companion said, licking some ice cream from where it had dribbled onto her wrist. “Pam Kenton.”

It was nice being with someone who ate with gusto. My best friend Kandi has the appetite of a gnat and usually shoots me disapproving looks when I order anything more fattening than a celery stick. I know it’s only because she cares about me and wants me to be one of the skinny forty percenters, but still, it can get pretty annoying.

“Actually,” Pam said, “my last name isn’t really Kenton. It’s Koskovolis. Kenton is my stage name. I’m an actress. Of course, you know what that means in this town.”

“Waitress?”

“You got it,” she nodded. “And you?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened, impressed. People are always impressed when I tell them I’m a writer. “What do you write?”

“Oh, industrial brochures. Résumés. Stuff like that.”

Here’s where they usually stop being impressed. Most folks find résumés and industrial brochures a bit of a yawn.

But Pam sat up, interested.

“You write résumés? I sure could use some help with mine. I’m getting tired of waitressing. I want a job where I get to sit down for a while.”

“I’d be happy to help you with your résumé,” I offered.

A worry line marred her brow. “I couldn’t afford to pay you much.”

“Oh, don’t worry about the money. I won’t charge you.”

Inwardly, I kicked myself. What was wrong with me? Why was I always giving away my services? If I started charging people, maybe I wouldn’t have to shop at joints like the Bargain Barn. Oh, well. Pam seemed awfully nice, and it wasn’t as if I had a lot of assignments that she’d be interfering with. In fact, my work schedule was scarily light.

“That’s so sweet of you,” Pam said. “How about I fix you dinner as payment?”

“Sounds great. When do you want to get together?”

“As soon as you can.”

“How about tomorrow night?”

“Oh, I can’t tomorrow,” she said. “That’s PMS night.”

“PMS night?”

“A group of friends get together once a week to bitch and moan over guacamole and margaritas. We call ourselves the PMS Club.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Hey, wait. I’ve got a great idea. Why don’t you come with me? We’re short on members right now and I think you’d be a great addition to the club. We could have dinner first at my place while we work on my résumé and then head over to the club afterward. What do you say?”

“Are you sure the others won’t mind?”

“No. They’re going to love you; I’m sure of it. And it’s really worthwhile. You get to share your innermost thoughts with like-minded women in a warm, supportive environment.

“Plus,” she added, with a grin, “you get great guacamole and free margaritas.”

“Sure,” I said, never one to pass up a free margarita. “Why not?”

I was soon to find out exactly why not, but that’s a whole other story. Stick around, and I’ll tell it to you.

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Copyright © 2005 by Laura Levine

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