When Life Gives You Lululemons (31 page)

The woman smiled and Miriam couldn't tell if it was one of bitterness or exhaustion or joy. “Five, actually.”

“Wait—five children? Or five years old?”

Another indiscernible smile. “Oldest boy is four. Then a three-year-old girl and a two-year-old girl. Of course we thought we'd roll the dice for one more boy—my husband's idea—and we got twins. Identical boys, eighteen months. I think we're probably done.”

“What—probably?” Miriam hated to sound so horrified, but never in her life had she met someone with five children under four. How was this woman even alive right now?

“Well, you never really know, do you? I'm only thirty-three.”

“Yes, of course. You have lots more time. Lots,” Miriam hurried to say, but Josie had already excused herself to refresh her drink.

“Don't let her get to you,” Ashley whispered, leaning in.

“My God,” Miriam said, shaking her head. “How does she raise all those kids?”

“She doesn't.”

“Doesn't work?”

“Doesn't raise the kids,” Ashley said. “She's one of those who thinks of kids as a status symbol. Like, the more you have, the more money you
have. She has two au pairs, a full-time live-out driving nanny, and weekend help all day Saturday and Sunday. She's not exactly overextended.”

“Still. Five kids under four? And she looks like that? It's so epically unfair.”

“You set up a meeting with Dr. Lawson and you could look like that too,” Ashley murmured under her breath. “He has offices in the city and in Greenwich. Does beautiful work and is very discreet. Even his waiting rooms are totally private. Just say the word.”

“There is no way plastic surgery gave her that body.” Miriam looked at Josie's long legs and the nearly nonexistent hips and the long, flowing beach waves.

“No, not all of it. Good genes gave her the legs. Near-starvation and three hours a day of cardio make her skinny. But the tight abs? The pert nose? The cheerleader breasts?” Ashley cupped her own breasts here and pushed them up toward her neck. “Those are all Dr. Lawson's. Not to mention the well-Botoxed forehead and the plumped-up lips. Tammy, a nurse in his office, did those.”

“Wow,” Miriam breathed. “No wonder everyone looks so much better than me.” She'd always figured it was stunningly obvious when someone had plastic surgery: the Jennifer Grey nose, the Renée Zellweger lips, the Joan Rivers pulled-too-tight face, the Heidi Pratt boobs. But every last inch of Josie looked natural and in proportion.

Ashley glanced around the table. “By my count, every single woman at this table has had
something
done except one.”

“Who? Evie? She doesn't seem like the type.”

“You.”

“Oh, come on. You can't be serious,” Miriam said.

“I'm completely serious. Every single one.”

“What did you have?” Miriam couldn't envision that a single thing about perky blond Ashley wasn't God-given. Except maybe the highlights. But even those looked sun-kissed and natural.

“Me?” Ashley sipped her mimosa. “Please. What
haven't
I had done?
I was scheduled to get my eyes done in eight weeks, but I think I'm going to do my vagina instead.”

“Your . . . vagina?”

Ashley nodded. “I've been thinking about it forever, ever since Claire did it. You remember meeting her for the first time there, right? At the sex-toy party?”

Miriam squinted. She vaguely recalled the hostess saying she'd just gotten her vagina “done,” but no one had elaborated.

Ashley continued, “Things with Eric are still up in the air. He knows I know about Ashley Madison, and he's saying all the right things. It's going to take some time to figure out how we move forward, together or separately. So I figure do the vag now and it'll pay dividends no matter what: either for Eric, who may think twice about affairs with married women if his own wife is like a teenager down there. Or for the next man. If I have to be back out there dating again”—with this, she shuddered—“then you better believe I'm going to give myself every advantage.”

“I . . .” Miriam coughed. What did it mean to have one's vagina done? Which part, exactly? And what did they do? “I'm not totally sure what you mean.”

“About what?”

“About having surgery on your . . . you know. Is it because you pee when you sneeze? My OB said that happens to everyone after kids.”

Ashley smiled and patted Miriam's hand as if she were seriously impaired. “There's no right fit for everyone. Some fix the outer area strictly for aesthetics. Others have their pelvic floor rebuilt. And others have everything tightened to make sex better. It's all perfectly normal. Commonplace, actually.”

Miriam laughed. She couldn't help it.

“What, you think I'm kidding?” Ashley turned to face the rest of the table. “Ladies? Sorry to interrupt, everyone, but my friend Miriam here needs a bit of clarification. Do you mind participating in a little informal survey?”

Seven heads swiveled toward them and Miriam felt herself blush. “Forget it, I believe you,” she whispered to Ashley.

“Now, we are totally off the record here. But we're all friends, right?” A few of the women looked nervous. “How many of you have had plastic surgery?”

There was a brief hesitation before three women raised their hands.

“Ladies, come on, now,” Ashley said with an encouraging smile.

The remaining four raised their hands.

“And how many of you would do it again?”

All seven hands remained raised and Ashley added hers.

“Now, how many have done your lady parts? I only ask because I'm scheduled for surgery with Dr. Lawson in just a few weeks, as soon as camp starts. And I'm a little nervous,” Ashley said, letting the last part hang in the air.

“Oh, don't be nervous,” said a pale redhead in some sort of strappy workout sweatshirt. “You'll love how you look in a bathing suit. And
Eric
will love how it feels.”

“Agreed,” said the petite blonde with blindingly white teeth next to her. “It's almost annoying how much Roger wants it now that I've had it custom-fit.”

There was so much to unpack there—so much that sounded utterly and completely mysterious—that Miriam didn't know where to start.

“I have to say, though, that I would actually recommend Dr. Fine-Steinberg instead of Dr. Lawson. I don't know about your husbands, but mine was much more comfortable having a woman handle him down there than a man,” said a strikingly beautiful woman with a deep tan and a heart-shaped face.

“Agreed a hundred percent,” said the woman next to her.

Everyone looked to Ashley, who turned to Miriam. “See? It's pretty standard fare.”

“Wait. I still don't understand. What does she mean, you'll like how you look in a bathing suit? Don't you, like, wear a bikini bottom to cover that part up?”

“She means a little snip and sew and you don't have to be super-self-conscious anymore that your labia is hanging down like the meats at a deli counter,” Evie said, and the table broke into appreciative—and understanding—laughter.

“I don't think my . . . I don't think it, um, hangs any lower than it should.” Miriam couldn't bring herself to say “labia” in front of all these people.

The pretty redhead spoke up. “Look, I'm obviously not familiar with your labia, but if you're in your mid-thirties and you've had a couple or three kids, then it's likely things aren't where they should be.”

“Yeah, and I challenge you to find something less attractive than camel toe,” Josie added.

“Camel toe?” was all Miriam could say.

“It's when you're wearing something really fitted and—”

“No, I know what it means,” Miriam said. “I just didn't really realize it was something to consider.”

“Well, it is,” Ashley said. “Men hate it.”

“I didn't know that.” Miriam drained the rest of her Bellini. “So they . . . fix it in this type of surgery?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“That and more,” Ashley said with an authoritative nod.

“You said that men feel more comfortable with a female doctor? What do they have to do with this?”

There was a beat of silence, and then the pretty, petite blonde asked in a sugar-sweet voice with a hint of a Southern accent, “Where are you from, Miriam?”

“From? Oh, everywhere, really. My parents were diplomats, so we moved all over. But I, um, we actually moved out here last fall from New York.”

“And none of your New York City friends had their lady parts custom-fit?” the blonde asked.

“A bunch had episiotomies and various stitches after childbirth, but I'm not totally sure what you mean by custom-fit . . .”

The women exchanged glances as though silently debating who
was going to field this one. Finally, Evie said, “So long as they're putting you under and getting everything on the outside in tip-top shape, it makes sense to have them tighten up everything on the inside too.”

“Of course.” Miriam nodded like she was cool and got it.

“So your husband gets himself aroused, and the doctor measures his length and girth, and then he can customize your vag to fit your husband perfectly. Not too loose, not too tight. Just right.”

“Wait—is that even legal?”

The women laughed. Ashley asked, “A show of hands, please?”

Four women raised their hands. And Ashley was planning to do it, which would make a clean fifty percent of the room.

Ashley faced Miriam. “See? There's no way that only women in Greenwich do it. Everyone does. We're just the only ones who are honest about it.”

The pale redhead laughed. “I'll have to disagree with you there,” she said to Ashley. “I don't think we're exactly honest about it, at least not outside this room. There are more women in this town with ‘diastases' ”—she air-quoted the word—“than can be medically warranted.”

“Diastases?” Miriam whispered to Ashley.

“When the stomach muscles become separated from pregnancy. It can be a real thing, like a serious problem for some people, but everyone I know says they have it so they can justify their tummy tucks.”

“And hernias,” Evie called out. “Have you noticed how many women between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five desperately need hernia repair? If that's not a euphemism for a tummy tuck, nothing is.”

Everyone laughed. “I told people that,” the petite blonde said.

“Me too,” Josie added.

“My personal favorite is when you say you're having a lift just because you got a little saggy after babies. Um, I'm sorry, if the doctor is putting silicone into your breasts, it no longer qualifies as a lift.”

More laughter. Suddenly, the conversation shifted to summer camp, and Miriam couldn't wait to tell someone about this new development. Paul? Emily? Karolina?
It was something they all needed to hear: it was totally insane.

  •  •  •  

“W
hat are you, like, Orthodox or something?” Emily said when she called her on the drive home. “Yes, it's super-trendy now. Big deal. News flash: girls kiss other girls, and it doesn't mean they're lesbians. Buckle your seat belt for this one: people meet each other on Tinder and have random sex. Like, totally random. No one even calls the next day! Can you imagine?”

“Emily, I'm not that bad!”

“Hey, if the penis fits . . .”

“Really?”

“Sorry. But seriously, Miriam, nothing you're telling me is remotely surprising.”

“Having it custom-fit to their husbands?”

“Bespoke vaginas are the new Birkin bags.”

“Lovely, Emily. Do you sit around and worry about your camel toe in a bathing suit?”

“Of course not. My vag is pristine. Pure as the morning snow.”

Miriam swerved a bit to avoid clipping an oncoming car on the narrow two-lane street. “I can name twenty guys off the top of my head who I know for a fact sullied your snow,” she said.

“At least I haven't pushed three eight-plus-pound babies out of there!”

“I worry about every single freaking thing on my body—except for the way my vagina looks in a bikini bottom.”

There was a moment of quiet on the line, and Miriam wondered if they'd been disconnected. But then she heard Emily say, super-slowly and with obvious delight, “Well, maybe you should.”

“Ha ha. Listen, can we please talk about Karolina for a minute? She told me about the ex-cop setup. Emily, you'll get yourself sued—or
arrested. Please stop it. We need leverage, but it's not helping anyone to toe the law.”

“Spoken like a lawyer.”

“Spoken like someone with half a brain! Seriously, Em. We're close. I'm sure I'm going to find something soon, and we can get Harry back.”

“Good. You keep working like an eager lawyer beaver, Miriam, and I'll keep doing what I do. Because I'll tell you this right now, I'm not stopping until Graham is
finished
.”

“I
love you, Mom. I'll see you at visiting day?” Harry asked, his brow furrowing in that way it always did when he was uncertain.

“Of course, honey. Have the best time, and I'll see you in a few weeks.” Karolina moved her lips close to the phone's camera and kissed it. She could see Harry blush, but he smiled too.

“Mom? You'll definitely be there, right? Even though Dad will be too?”

“Yes, love. I wouldn't miss it for the world. You remembered to pack extra Claritin, right? In a package labeled for the nurse? The dissolvable tabs?”

“Uh-huh. I got them. I checked off everything on the packing list you sent. I have it all.”