Foods.
I stand in my closet, eyeing my pitiful wardrobe. Nothing’s right for a South Beach club. How did I let Anna talk me into this? I should have treated myself and bought something cool, but I was too busy plotting my major life changes. Oh well. Do I have anything from this decade?
My choices are pathetically inappropriate. There’s the purple bridesmaid’s dress from Bernadette’s wedding that makes me look like a pregnant munchkin. Why do I even still have that? The white linen Tom Wolfe pantsuit would be perfect for an evening of throwing back mojitos and puffing on a big fat cigar. There’s the low-cut minidress that I never had the guts to wear. Hmmm.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I wonder why I thought it was so revealing. It’s just above my knees and no cleavage is showing (not that I have any to speak of). Richard wanted me to get a boob job, but I refused. Would that have made a difference?
Anna’s been my best friend since the third grade. Tonight we’re seated in front of the stage at The G-Spot, a Chuck E. Cheese for women, consuming a bottle of Dom Pérignon. I’m making a fish face and can’t feel my teeth. Nothing wrong with a little mood alteration, especially today. Anna’s beautiful, fun, sexy, and comfortable in her own skin, everything I’m not. Plus she’s the only person who’s ever totally gotten me.
The place is filled with bachelorette parties and gals celebrating birthdays, divorces, and new babies and grandkids. We are a strange brew of hot young chicks, shell-shocked middle-aged women, and happy-to-be-out-and-about seniors. But there’s a common denominator among many of my fellow revelers: huge breasts. Not big C-cups, but enormous DD-cups. Some of them look okay. But some are teeny-tiny gals with sticks for legs. Those canteloupes protruding from their chests look absurd. Are huge mammaries the rage everywhere, or just Miami? Wherever there are men, I guess.
“Tell me the truth. Do I have the smallest boobs in town?”
Anna giggles as she examines the goods.
“Well, they are small, but they’re nice and perky. No worries. Some guys prefer cupcakes.”
I’m inquiring about “cupcakes,” when a voice bellows out of the loudspeaker.
“The G-Spot is proud to present Miami’s one and only, the fabulous Miss Lilly. Let’s hear it, ladies. Give it up for Miss Lilly.”
As we applaud, the spotlight hits an octogenarian decked out in a leopard jumpsuit and a pink boa, with yellow hibiscus flowers perched in her beautiful long white hair. But the most impressive thing about her is that she’s wielding a walker, a red polka-dot walker but a walker nonetheless. The place suddenly goes silent. No one can believe what we’re looking at. Anna winks at me. I gulp some Dom.
All eyes are on Miss Lilly as she shoves the walker out of her way and shakily grabs the microphone stand. She takes a deep breath and looks out into the sea of expectant faces. We’re curious about her poem, but even more concerned about whether she can finish her recitation without having to be resuscitated. Miss Lilly speaks.
“This poem is called ‘How to Keep a Man.’
Hear me now and take my advice.
To hold on to a man, you must be nice.
When a guy gets hard, he’s ready to go,
So whatever you do, don’t say no.
They say men are from Mars and women are from Venus.
Just thank your lucky stars and suck on his penis!”
Everyone’s laughing and clapping. I’m uncomfortable and look awkwardly at Anna.
“She did not just say that.”
“Oh yes, she did. And that’s one of her R-rated ones. You should hear the X-rated.”
Part of me thinks she’s obscene; part of me wants to scream, “You go, girl!” Can you say that to an eighty-some-thing? I’d like to be that comfortable with my sexuality before I reach senior-citizen status.
Two hunky young escorts sporting red polka-dot jockstraps roll Miss Lilly’s walker over and help her offstage. She pats their behinds. That’s something my mother would enjoy immensely. Dear god, what will Claudette be doing at that age?
“This is embarrassing.”
Anna smiles. “It’s South Beach. Anything goes.” She grabs my hand, looks at my wedding ring. “What’s that still doing there?”
“Shark repellant. Any guy that hits on me with this on will just be another Richard. That, I can live without.”
Anna raises her eyebrows. Am I really ready to be single? Can I do this?
“You need to lighten up, sweetie.”
“You’re so right. I’m going to have fun and do whatever I want.”
“And that would be?”
“Don’t know yet. Give me a minute to think about it, okay? By the way, this really cute guy moved in next door.”
“Whoa. That’s so desperate. You can’t go for the first one that comes along.”
The voice of reason.
“You’re so right. What was I thinking?”
I finally have my freedom. This is the first time I’ve ever lived alone. I went from my college dorm to Richard and my first apartment. One of the house stud muffins comes over and kisses my hand. Uh oh. I’m not ready for whatever this is. Anna grins.
“Happy birthday, Lizard.”
Great. Before I know it, he’s gyrating and pulling me up to dance with him. Everyone’s watching and clapping. I’m mortified and can’t even remember how to dance, so I sit down. His business is right in front of my face . . . nestled against my nose, now his derriere in a g-string (Holy crap!). I cover my face. Get me out of here! I sneak a look at him. He’s cute and young, and he smiles warmly at me. I half-smile back. He leans down and whispers in my ear.
“Don’t worry, it’s almost over. And I’m gay.”
I giggle and suddenly it’s all okay. I take off my wedding ring to wild applause from the DD-cup crowd. The guy gives me a kiss on the cheek and that’s that. I throw my wedding ring into the bottomless pit of my purse and give Anna a big hug.
“Thanks.”
“It wasn’t too terrible, was it?”
“Actually, it was kind of fun.”
I really am grateful. What would I do without her?
“Claudette didn’t remember my birthday, and neither did Darcy.”
“You know you can’t expect anything from Claudette.”
“I
