It’s actually more like a Cheshire Cat grin. “Yeah. There are a lot of cool branches of law. In fact—”
“—and I told her. Get rid of that candy dish on your desk. Hit the StairMaster once in a while. Then come back and talk to me about a promotion,” the man goes on.
We stop talking again. I check out the guy’s suit. I don’t understand people, but I totally get clothes. It’s an Ermenegildo Zegna. Navy. Two button. Wool. Easily $3K. This guy. The way his graying hair has outgrown its haircut but his shirt’s been recently pressed. Careless wealth. Easy power. A dangerous combination.
“Yeah,” Piper says, loud enough that it catches the attention of the douchelords. “We learned about this thing called employment law where I can sue rich assholes who won’t give promotions to fat women.”
Mr. Navy Suit turns to Piper. “That’s not illegal,” he says, glaring at her.
“Yet,” she replies, pronouncing each letter sharply and returning his glare with equal force.
The man drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter and leaves the bar.
The bartender approaches us with another round and we order some food. Piper gets a burger and I ask for a chicken Caesar salad with the dressing on the side.
I grin at her. “I think you just chased a multimillionaire executive out of a swanky restaurant. You really are my hero.”
She snorts with laughter as a waitress arrives with our plates. I watch in envy as a bacon cheeseburger is slid in front of Piper. The corners of the cheddar cheese melt and drip. I force myself to get busy removing all but the five croutons I’m allowed to eat from my salad.
Piper doesn’t bother to pretend her burger is anything other than completely delicious. “You know, you could have a cheeseburger too, Cookie.”
“Not on the plan,” I say, poking at my bland chicken, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“If your plan is causing you to make that face, I think it’s time for a new plan,” she says.
“We can’t all be Givers of Zero Fucks,” I say.
“Yes, we can.” Piper scoops up a few seasoned fries.
I glance at the Empire State Building. “If it weren’t for NutriNation, I wouldn’t even be here. Let’s face it. There’s no way NutriMin Water would’ve sponsored my blog if I didn’t use their product to lose weight.”
She grabs my bag from the back of my chair and rifles through it.
“What are you doing?” I ask. “What are you looking for?”
“Your crystal ball? Or maybe the multiverse goggles you use to see alternate dimensions. They must be in here, right? I mean, otherwise how could you really know for sure what would happen if you made different choices?” she says.
I grab my bag. “Oh, so it’s all just in my imagination? You heard those two guys. Fashion is even worse. Fashion is where they take thin people and call them plus-size models. Where they refuse to dress fat celebrities for events and say that size-six women are fat actresses.”
Piper takes a sip of her drink. “Yeah. There’s fat-shaming everywhere. But it’s up to us what we do about it. I mean come on, Cookie. You’re going to design plus-size clothes but not be plus-size? You’re gonna live your life like you’re terrified of a fucking cheeseburger?”
“I’m not afraid to eat a cheeseburger,” I say. I’m not totally sure this is true, so I keep going. “And I hate to break it to you, but in fashion, I am plus-size.”
She frowns at me. “Well, I’m going to be the best lawyer on this or any other continent, and I’ll sue any fat-shamer who tries to stop me.”
“We can’t all be you,” I tell her.
“We can be whatever we want.”
Piper is totally wrong. In fashion, being fat is a cardinal sin. A cackling villain who kidnaps puppies and turns them into coats would be more popular in the world of fashion than a fat designer. But I hardly ever get to hang out with Piper in real life and I don’t want to waste our time arguing. I change the subject to Columbia, and we spend the rest of the meal joking about Piper’s awful new roommates.
We charge our meal to Gareth Miller’s corporate Amex and go down to our room.
I crawl into bed and turn out the lights but can’t relax. I imagine the five croutons I ate are having a fistfight in my stomach. I toss and turn. I think again and again of Gareth’s dark, brooding eyes as he says, I think I’ll enjoy that very much.
“Have you heard from Tommy?” Piper whispers from the other queen bed.
“No,” I say, trying not to think too much about this.
“And that’s not a problem for you?”
“No.” It’s pathetic, thinking about the time he kissed me. He made his choice, and there’s no going back.
“He’s a wanker anyway.” Piper turns in her bed a few times and fluffs her pillow. “Night, Cookie Vonn.”
I dream of a world full of Dorito-trimmed Christmas trees and curly-haired Ken-doll boyfriends.
soScottsdale <New Post>
Title: Summer Sportswear on Sale
Creator: Cookie Vonn [contributor]
Ladies, can we talk about American sportswear for a second? It’s no accident that sportswear rose in popularity as the women’s suffrage movement gained steam. Think for a second about nineteenth-century clothing, about corsets, linen bonnets and petticoats that flowed over steel hoops. Women had places to go and things to do. But how far could they get in corsets that caused fainting spells, sleeves that didn’t let them extend their arms and skirts that caught fire if they turned their backs to the stove? Modern women needed separates like skirts and shorts and shirts that could be washed and worn, mixed and matched. Sportswear is where fashion meets feminism.
What does this have to do with anything? Well, niblets, with fall fashions hitting the racks, most stores are in full-on fire sale mode, putting summer styles on clearance. Meaning you can save big on a sportswear splurge. From a simple swimsuit by Tory Burch, to classic Wayfarer sunnies, to the Tommy Hilfiger striped nautical tee, after the jump, we’ll have sportswear essentials every girl ought to have in her closet.
Notes: Marlene [editor]: Love the historical primer but not sure if readers will care. Kill the intro and get on with the list. And do we really want to call our subscribers “niblets”?
FAT: One day before NutriNation
“Sorry. Who are you with?” The hipster’s looking down his nose at me, through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses I suspect are fake. He stands behind a desk that guards the entrance of Gareth Miller’s narrow garment-district studio. Directly behind him is a tall, maple-paneled door.
Behind him is the
