Yesterday I was getting ready to leave the little place I was eating and as I began to put on my coat I glanced over at the four women sitting next to me. They were part of the "ladies who lunch" contingent.
I see a lot of those because I work in an upscale neighbourhood. Usually, the ladies who lunch are something of a joke. Always perfectly dressed, perfectly made up, perfectly coiffed, they look, with their facelifts (which are sometimes so terribly terribly wrong) and collagened lips and lipo-ed stomachs and thighs, like plastic mannequins. Empty. Vague. The biggest challenge of the day is rolling out of bed on time to get to the spa for a massage and manicure.
But no, I'm wrong, the biggest challenge is interviewing to find that new maid. Black maids are so "out" now, you absolutely must have the flavour of the month: a Philippina. Maids from the Philippines are where it's at - and they're being snatched up like hotcakes. And you know, good help is hard to find, so really, it's quite stressful being a lady who lunches. Really! If there's no maid, who's gonna wash the toilet?
Then all of a sudden it hit me. Yesterday, heading back to the office I actually envied them. I'd like my biggest challenge to be making it on time for that massage. Having nothing to do with my time but spend my bigshot lawyer husband's money shopping for clothes and redecorating the house every year.
Yep, I'd like to be a lady who lunches. For a minute there it seemed like such a wonderful job. But then I thought of those botched face lifts and mega lips... And the obligatory bleached blond hair. And the maintenance time required for all that plastic "perfection". And the vacuity and the emptiness.
And I walked back to the office, looking forward to the weekend and spending it in the cottage we worked so hard to buy.