Read Online The Botox Diaries by Janice Kaplan, Lynn Schnurnberger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janice Kaplan, Lynn Schnurnberger
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Shit!
Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!
No bargains here. I know that without even opening it. And I can’t open it. I can’t.
My blood is racing and I feel like I’ve swallowed a gallon of coffee. My hands are shaking so hard I’m afraid I’ll delete the darn thing the minute I try to open it. So I get up and walk away from my desk. I pace around the kitchen, nibble on a muffin, brew a pot of herbal tea and try to simmer down. I go upstairs, stare into my closet for a solid three minutes, and then I realize the problem. I’m not dressed right for this e-mail. I change out of my ratty sweats into my oh-so-chic black suede pants. Should I reapply the lipstick and mascara I wiped off at Dr. Kaye’s office? That’s silly. I can probably read this bare-faced. No I can’t. I go to the bathroom and pull out a tube of Estée Lauder Sun-Kissed bronzer and a new Bobby Brown deep-wine lip stain.
With a critical eye, I look into the full-length mirror and swivel around. The Butt Master I bought for $24.99 from that three a.m. infomercial was worth every penny. The suede pants look good. I may be middle-aged and divorced but I still have some flair. I hate to sound like a bad self-help tape, but I’m just as desirable and a lot more self-confident than that pretty young thing who was once married to French dreamboat Jacques.
The man who after a decade of silence has sent me this e-mail.
Which—time to face the music—I am now ready to read.
And it’s really not that hard to do, is it? I go back downstairs to my desk, stare at the computer, and take a few deep breaths. A double click, and Jacques is back in my life.
Or at least he’s back in New York.
Mon Amour
,
I’ll be in your city next week. Can you meet me Monday nite at 6 for drinks at Les Halles or Tuesday nite at 8 for dinner at Balthazar? Let me know which is better for you
.
Avec amour, J
.
I reread it six times. Not that there’s much to read. I haven’t heard from him in ten years but Jacques acts like we just broke baguettes together last week. He must have had some sort of emotional breakthrough, though, because he’s actually given me a choice. Something I don’t remember his doing in all our years together. Still, the options are limited at best. What if I want to meet him at Les Halles Monday night for
dinner
instead of drinks? What if I’m available Tuesday but hate Balthazar? And tell me, please, is nobody ever going to take me to Le Bernardin?
Another possibility crosses my mind. Clearly one that would never have occurred to Jacques. I don’t have to see him at all. I could simply delete the message, erase him from my memory bank, and never have to confront my ex-lover, ex-husband and ex-life again. Jacques,
Monsieur Irresistable
, simply takes it for granted that I’ll see him.
And he’s right. I will.
I sink back into my ergonomically correct chair, close my eyes and try to picture what Jacques looks like now. Could he possibly be gray? Is he wondering if I am? Has he gained weight? Whoops, I have. How much can I lose before next Monday if I go on my favorite starvation diet? Maybe I should meet him on Tuesday, to give the Slim-Fast an extra day. I think briefly of trying to scare up some black market fen-phen, even if that’s the one that kills you.
Ten years. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t picture Jacqueslooking one iota different than the day I met him, standing on that Caribbean beach in one of those skimpy French bathing suits that no American man would ever have the nerve to wear. I barely had the nerve to look. Twenty-four hours later I wasn’t just looking, I was having what I thought was the fling of my life with a ruggedly handsome hunk who looked like he’d been cast to seduce somebody’s wife in one of those French art-house movies. Instead he seduced me, nobody’s wife yet. And how I ended up as Jacques’ bride is one of the mysteries that I’ve replayed eight thousand times in my head.
That
Shit!
Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!
No bargains here. I know that without even opening it. And I can’t open it. I can’t.
My blood is racing and I feel like I’ve swallowed a gallon of coffee. My hands are shaking so hard I’m afraid I’ll delete the darn thing the minute I try to open it. So I get up and walk away from my desk. I pace around the kitchen, nibble on a muffin, brew a pot of herbal tea and try to simmer down. I go upstairs, stare into my closet for a solid three minutes, and then I realize the problem. I’m not dressed right for this e-mail. I change out of my ratty sweats into my oh-so-chic black suede pants. Should I reapply the lipstick and mascara I wiped off at Dr. Kaye’s office? That’s silly. I can probably read this bare-faced. No I can’t. I go to the bathroom and pull out a tube of Estée Lauder Sun-Kissed bronzer and a new Bobby Brown deep-wine lip stain.
With a critical eye, I look into the full-length mirror and swivel around. The Butt Master I bought for $24.99 from that three a.m. infomercial was worth every penny. The suede pants look good. I may be middle-aged and divorced but I still have some flair. I hate to sound like a bad self-help tape, but I’m just as desirable and a lot more self-confident than that pretty young thing who was once married to French dreamboat Jacques.
The man who after a decade of silence has sent me this e-mail.
Which—time to face the music—I am now ready to read.
And it’s really not that hard to do, is it? I go back downstairs to my desk, stare at the computer, and take a few deep breaths. A double click, and Jacques is back in my life.
Or at least he’s back in New York.
Mon Amour
,
I’ll be in your city next week. Can you meet me Monday nite at 6 for drinks at Les Halles or Tuesday nite at 8 for dinner at Balthazar? Let me know which is better for you
.
Avec amour, J
.
I reread it six times. Not that there’s much to read. I haven’t heard from him in ten years but Jacques acts like we just broke baguettes together last week. He must have had some sort of emotional breakthrough, though, because he’s actually given me a choice. Something I don’t remember his doing in all our years together. Still, the options are limited at best. What if I want to meet him at Les Halles Monday night for
dinner
instead of drinks? What if I’m available Tuesday but hate Balthazar? And tell me, please, is nobody ever going to take me to Le Bernardin?
Another possibility crosses my mind. Clearly one that would never have occurred to Jacques. I don’t have to see him at all. I could simply delete the message, erase him from my memory bank, and never have to confront my ex-lover, ex-husband and ex-life again. Jacques,
Monsieur Irresistable
, simply takes it for granted that I’ll see him.
And he’s right. I will.
I sink back into my ergonomically correct chair, close my eyes and try to picture what Jacques looks like now. Could he possibly be gray? Is he wondering if I am? Has he gained weight? Whoops, I have. How much can I lose before next Monday if I go on my favorite starvation diet? Maybe I should meet him on Tuesday, to give the Slim-Fast an extra day. I think briefly of trying to scare up some black market fen-phen, even if that’s the one that kills you.
Ten years. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t picture Jacqueslooking one iota different than the day I met him, standing on that Caribbean beach in one of those skimpy French bathing suits that no American man would ever have the nerve to wear. I barely had the nerve to look. Twenty-four hours later I wasn’t just looking, I was having what I thought was the fling of my life with a ruggedly handsome hunk who looked like he’d been cast to seduce somebody’s wife in one of those French art-house movies. Instead he seduced me, nobody’s wife yet. And how I ended up as Jacques’ bride is one of the mysteries that I’ve replayed eight thousand times in my head.
That
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