Target Underwear and a Vera Wang Gown (11 page)

“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; 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 must have left her house to start shopping for the gift at about 3:30 that afternoon. This is the one thing about Rachel that bugs everyone to no end. Everything else about her is the greatest. She always has the best gossip, she’s the first one to pick you up from the service station when your car breaks down, and once she made me laugh so hard I got kicked out of a restaurant for making too much of a ruckus.

But all of that aside, Rachel is the worst person to shop with. Rachel is a looker, a feeler, a browser. With the exception of an important occasion, I am a buyer: I see something, it fits, I buy it. Rachel has to look at every item in the store and check out its merits one by one.

One Saturday, for example, Rachel called and asked if I’d come with her to buy a pair of black rayon pants. Instinctively, I gave her a flat “absolutely not.”

“I swear,” she said, “ I know exactly what I want; it’s going to take two seconds. I promise you we’ll be in and out.”

I looked at my watch. We entered the Beverly Center mall at exactly 1:42 and by 2:01, Rachel had found the pants she wanted in her size.

“I’m just going to try them on for you,” she said. “Just two seconds, I promise.”

Three hours and six stores later ... Rachel hadn’t realized that the first pair had a button; she preferred a snap. She felt the second pair made her butt look huge. The third pair had a static-cling problem. The eighth pair just didn’t feel right. The ninth pair had a cuff and, two hours after that, just as the stores were closing, Rachel finally found the pair she was looking for.

I grabbed the pants and went to stand in line, but Rachel tugged back. I could see her mind in deep thought over the pants, feeling the texture of the fabric and squinting for any irregularities in the stitching. Was the fabric up to her standards? How would these pants benefit her life? Would they be useful? Would they pack easily? What was the update on the situation in the Middle East and, if she went to help, could she wear these pants?

I was becoming exasperated. I knew that this could be the end of our friendship. After ten years of being friends, someone would ask me why we weren’t friends anymore and I’d have to tell them, “We went shopping.”

At 5:57, Rachel and I finally left the Beverly Center. Rachel did not buy a pair of pants. I, on the other hand, did pay for the parking. Rachel forgot her wallet at home.

As we approached my house, she turned to me and said, “Look, I’m really sorry. I want you to know how much I really appreciate your coming with me.”

“Whatever,” I said as I opened the door to get out.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she told me. “I swear. We’ll go to the Barneys sale tomorrow; it’s the last day.”

I thought about it for a second.

“OK,” I said.

The next day, Rachel and I took separate cars and met at the Barneys sale. I was there for one hour and I bought two pairs of pants and a sweater. That was at one in the afternoon. At seven that night, Rachel called me on the phone and said, “Listen, I’m still here, I need you to do me a big favor and go over to my house and feed my cats. They haven’t eaten all day, and I don’t know when I’m going to get back there.”

As the waiter came to take our order, he approached Rachel first.

“I’m not sure yet,” she said, looking over the menu. “Start on that side,” she said, pointing at Susan.

“Steak, medium-well—just a little pink in the middle—and a chopped vegetable salad.”

“Would you like the salad dressing on the side?” he asked her.

“And why would you ask me that?” she questioned.

He didn’t answer, not wanting to insult her by saying lie assumed she was the stereotypical woman on a diet

The waiter turned to Felicia, who turned to me. “Adena, would you like to split a pizza to start?” Then she turned to Heidi and said, “Heidi, I know you love the Dover sole, but I just noticed that it has cilantro on it, and I know you hate cilantro, so I thought I’d warn you before.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Heidi deadpanned as she turned to the waiter. “I will have the Dover sole, no cilantro, and a side of spinach.”

“I don’t really care what I have,” Serena said to the waiter “Make it your choice,” she said, turning back to me.

By the time the waiter got to Rachel again, she still couldn’t decide, and other tables were starting to pester the waiter.

“She’ll have the special pasta,” Heidi said.

“Let her do what she wants; she’s a grown woman,” Susan said.

“Split the pizza with Heidi and me,” Felicia said.

“She’ll decide when she decides,” Serena calmly said.

Pretty soon, the waiter had served our drinks and we toasted to friendship. There were two working mothers, two stay-at-home moms, one woman with a serious boyfriend, and one single woman. Years before, for whatever the reason, we’d all arrived separately and alone in a new town. We threw on cheap Lycra flowered cotton dresses and we found our kindred spirits. Our new lives had affected our fashions and we had affected one another. For better or for worse, they were my second family, biggest influences, and soul mates for life.

’ve never been one for loving change.

When Estée Lauder changed the formula on my favorite self-tanner, I called the company and demanded to speak to whoever was in charge. I’m still on hold. When Lancôme discontinued my favorite Matte Royale lipstick, I was ready to stage a sit-in. When Calvin Klein stopped making my favorite white cotton ribbed tank tops (aka “wife beaters”), in a pathetic attempt at salvaging, I braved the bemused look on my dry cleaner’s face as I began getting my remaining stash dry-cleaned.

So in the mid- to late nineties at age twenty-seven, sans college sweetheart, I was beyond depressed, prophesying a morbid future. Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill album had become my anthem. I had Counting Crows’ “Anna Begins” playing on a loop. I felt like a sentence had been handed down to me.

“Miss
Halpern,”
the judge of relationship court said as he threw down his gavel, “you have been found guilty of finding the
wrong man. You will be sentenced to a new life of pitiful blind dates, trivial conversation, boring parties, going dutch, one-night stands, notoriously awful dating tips, going to movies alone, sleeping alone, eating alone, simply being alone, and no one will bring you soup when you are sick. May God have mercy on your soul.”

To add to the angst, the five women you meet in Los Angeles were all either in serious relationships or married with kids. I had to get cracking if I was going to catch up with them so we could all buy houses on the same cul-de-sac and walk our kids to school together, and they were more than keyed up for the task of helping.