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Count on Your Friends to See You through Life’s Uncertainties
When I backpacked around the world, I loved having nothing tying me down. Now that same open-endedness made me feel unsettled.
“Why don’t you come to San Francisco, and we’ll move in somewhere?” said my college buddy David, who had a well-paying job at a bank.
“Can my college roommate Kevin join us too?” I asked. “He’s always wanted to live in San Francisco.”
“The more the merrier.”
As soon as we arrived, Kevin and I started scouring the city while David was working, but the only places we could afford were in sketchy neighborhoods or had cockroaches scampering beneath our feet. Finally, we found a nice, split-level apartment in Pacific Heights, one of the safest, most upscale parts of town. The apartment was lovely, with hardwood floors, a sliding glass door leading out to a deck, and a carpeted upstairs area with bedrooms and a bathroom. The downside was that there were only two bedrooms, so we would have to take turns sleeping on a futon couch in the living room. Still, it was better than living in a roach motel. David secured the lease, and Kevin and I began our job hunt, as the days of diehard penny-pinching began. Kevin became the master of finding every $1 taco happy hour in the city, and I learned to make a package of noodle ramen last for three meals.
While my work and home situation were still less than ideal, my friendships with Kevin and David grew stronger. Living with two gay men was quite an education.
“Time to go to Safeway,” Kevin would announce on Wednesday evenings. The Safeway grocery store in the Marina District was known for its unofficial singles scene, alternating between straight and gay nights, when dozens of the city’s unattached folks would go to “shop.”
“Why can’t we ever go when it’s straight singles night?” I asked.
“Sorry, Laur, you’re outnumbered.” David winked at Kevin.
One evening, as a compromise, we went grocery shopping on a non-singles night. I rolled my eyes as David put a second bag of frosted circus cookies into our cart.
“Those things are nasty; there’s not a natural ingredient in them.”
“Look who’s talking, PMS girl.” He was referring to the last time we’d gone shopping, when I’d insisted on buying Keebler’s “magic middle” cookies, a disgustingly artificial chocolate chip cookie with frosting inside. I didn’t just want those cookies that night; I needed them.
“Touché.”
“Stop bickering you two, and pay attention; I’m about to teach you something,” Kevin interrupted us. “Now, you see that cute guy over there?”
“Yes.”
“Look in his cart.”
“Why?”
Kevin pointed out, “Fresh pasta, fresh herbs, good bottle of wine.” He smiled at David. “That guy’s on our team.”
“How about him?” I asked, pointing to an athletic guy with a baseball cap.
“Two six-packs of cheap beer and a frozen pizza. He’s straight and single, but you don’t want him.”
“There’s another guy buying fresh pasta.” David tipped his head toward a well-dressed man halfway up the aisle.
“Take a closer look,” Kevin said, “Cat food and tampons. He’s either got a girlfriend, or he’s married.”
To this day, I can’t help peeking into other people’s grocery carts when I go shopping.
Of the four major life areas—work, home, health, and relationships—my first two were up in the air. And while I was generally healthy, I still wasn’t happy with my body. But at least one part of my life was positive and solid: I had wonderful friends.
Be a Sexy Mama
Learn to Love Your Body
I struggled to make ends meet, working at various temp jobs whenever I could get them. I went on a few interviews: for a position at a social work organization providing assistance to the elderly, for an entry-level job in a bank’s retirement division, and for a law firm as a legal clerk. But I was always told that I was either underexperienced or overqualified. Tired of eating ramen, I finally accepted a secretarial job at a major corporation.
Every day felt like Halloween as I donned my costume of a Brooks Brothers suit and abdomen-crushing pantyhose. I tried hard to fit in, answering the phone with my best saccharine greeting and cheerfully accepting every task I was asked to do.
My supervisor watched me like a hawk, eavesdropping on my phone calls and interrogating me every time I left my chair.
“Where are you going, Laurie?” she asked me accusingly.
“To the restroom, Shannon,” I said, clenching my fists.
Thank goodness for Darlene and Rosy, the other two secretaries. I wouldn’t have lasted one day in that place without them. Every morning, we met in the staff room for fifteen minutes before our shifts. Darlene and Rosy were both very large, middle-aged, African American women who were fond of coffee cake and other high-calorie snacks. One day, Rosy came in with two boxes of donuts, one to share and one for herself.
“My husband is worrying that I’m getting too heavy,” she said.
“Oh no, that’s ridiculous,” Darlene and I lied, the way women friends do.
“You know what I said? I said ‘Honey! The bigger I am . . . the more of me to love!’” She drawled the word “love” so it sounded like “luuuhv.”
Darlene and I laughed. Rosy took another bite of her donut, grinning.
I walked to my workstation to begin my shift. “The bigger I am, the more of me to luuuhv!” I smiled, repeating Rosy’s words to myself. Here was someone who was happy with herself, including with her body.
I had struggled with weight and body issues ever since grade school. I was a really chubby kid, and where I grew up, anything more than five pounds overweight was considered obese. The beauty icons back then were Twiggy and Cheryl Tiegs.
The playground bullies had a field day with me. “Hey fattie, wanna play four squares?” “What are you going to be for Halloween, a pumpkin?”
My mother was always concerned about the battle of the bulge, both in herself and her family. She kept up with all the latest fashion trends, but that stuff just didn’t matter to me, at least not the way it did to my slender and stylish mother and sister. As a result, I got pegged as the ugly duckling of the family.
My mom decided to make me her personal makeover project. Shortly after I put on my first real bra at age thirteen, she announced, “You are going to need breast reduction surgery. I strongly suggest a nose job to go with it.” I didn’t do either, but when I was twelve pounds overweight in high school, she enrolled me in Weight Watchers. Soon, the whole family was in on it. Whenever my relatives came over for the holidays, they would comment on whether I looked thinner or heavier than the
