Chapter 36
“No, girl, no,” Allison said, handing the phone back and swishing her black bob as she shook her head vigorously. “This photo is not an accurate representation of what you really look like.”
“Are you sure?” Willa asked, peering at her screen, zooming in and out on her FitFams portrait.
“Have you ever known me to bullshit you?”
“Well, no,” Willa said. “But you’d probably never come right out and tell me I’d put on a few.”
Allison took off her cat-eye glasses, flattened her palms on the restaurant’s picnic table, and looked deep into Willa’s eyes. “First of all, you are always beautiful. Always. Never forget that. Second of all, I always tell you the truth,” she said. “Now would I come right out and tell you you’d racked up a few extra LBs? No. But if you were concerned that you’d gained weight and I saw that you had, I wouldn’t lie. I’d find a very subtle, caring, and nurturing way to discuss it with you. But I am telling you right now, you look fantastic. As fit and healthy as I’ve ever seen you. Hand to God.”
Hearing this, Willa felt her jaw and her shoulders relax a little. It was amazing how easily someone else’s opinion, or photograph, could steady Willa or send her reeling. Her body image really was that malleable. It probably didn’t help that she refused to set foot on a scale, so she never really knew whether she was indeed up or down.
Pete hadn’t understood why Willa demanded, “get that out of here,” when she saw a bathroom scale in the beat-up box of stuff he had brought to move in with her in Ithaca. Frankly, she feared it, knowing the number would always be higher than seemed socially acceptable for her height and age because muscle weighs twice as much as fat and maybe she had heavier bones and BMI and blah blah blah. Better to never know the number than to be paralyzed by it. At the doctor she always stood with her back to the digital read-out and asked not to be told what it said.
“I was having flashbacks to that over-the-shoulder photo from Music Midtown, where the junk in my trunk looked more like one of those trucks a guy drives around after a Saturday of yard sales,” Willa said to Allison. “You know the ones — full of broken bicycles, wet books, and, like, a pair of cross-country skis.”
Allison laughed. She had great teeth. “That photo was not a fun one for you. The angle was all wrong. And I’m sorry, but nobody’s ass looks good in those loose, high-waisted, mom-jean shorts. It’s a denim diaper.”
“True,” Willa said, sipping her beer.
Allison’s expression shifted to concern. “Seriously, though. Are you OK? Is this something you might want to … talk to a professional about? To nip it in the bud so it doesn’t become … a big thing?”
Willa shook her head. “Nah, I’m fine,” she said. “Honestly. Just a temporary setback.”
“Good,” Allison said, then pulled out her red lipstick to reapply it. “Now, tell me about this retreat you’re going on with the FitFams family.”
Willa filled Allison in on the details, including the fact that each studio manager was expected to pay for their own transportation (Willa would use miles to fly Delta to Burlington, Vt., then rent a car for the 45-minute drive to the resort), but that FitFams would pay for lodging, drinks, and most other expenses during the weekend.
“Every studio manager can afford that flight?” Allison asked.
“We get paid OK,” Willa shrugged. “It’s the coaches who get shit.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. Though my coaches seem to be doing just fine. Ashley is married to a tech bro, so she really only works as a hobby,” Willa said. “I think the other two get a little help from mom and dad. I’m not sure how else they’d be able to afford their Beltline apartments, FitFams classes, waxing, brow maintenance, Botox, manicures, pedicures, blowouts, and balayage.”
“I feel like all we had to do when we were in our 20s was perform some basic personal landscaping,” Allison said, signaling the server for a refill. “Maybe bleaching our upper-lip hair, spraying on some Elizabeth Arden Sunflowers, and smearing on that Body Shop Kiwi lip balm, if we were being fancy.”
“Oh man, I loved that lip stuff. So addictive,” Willa said. “I remember one time in college, a couple of my guy friends stopped their car to whistle at me and ask why I was so dolled up. I had literally taken a shower, brushed my hair, and put on Chapstick. That’s it. The bar was low.”
“I honestly can’t imagine what it must be like to be in your 20s these days. It sounds fucking exhausting,” Allison said.
Willa pondered the beer in her glass for a moment.
“I guess,” Willa said. “I mean, yes, all the upkeep is ridiculous, and ruinously expensive. I would never have been able to afford all that. And Tinder sounds terrifying. But …”
Allison gave a sly smile. “But what?”
“Don’t you sometimes wish you could be that free again?” Willa said, cautiously. “Like, go to a bar and make out with someone who can pick you up and press you against a wall?”
“Duh,” Allison said. “I get wistful every time I see a guy on TV who’s cupping a girl’s face in his hands while he kisses her. And also when they do it on a desk.”
Willa guffawed, drawing the attention of the two 20-something women at the next table. They were huddled over complicated cocktails in huge flannel shirts, cropped henleys, baggy jeans, scrunchied ponytails, and dad sneakers. Basically every item from Willa’s unflattering 1990s wardrobe, all worn at the same time.
“Maybe I’m just having an existential crisis,” Willa said.
“Maybe,” Allison said. “Or maybe you’re just a normal human being with a normal working vagina.”
One of the women at the next table leaned over. “I’m so sorry to interrupt you guys. And it’s going to be obvious that we’ve been eavesdropping. But I just want to say: We love your voices and the stuff you’re talking about.”
Girl #2 chimed in. “Seriously. We could listen to you all night. You sound like us. But like, in the future.”
Willa and Allison exchanged glances.
“The future, huh?” Willa said.
“Totally,” said Girl #1.
“How old do you think we are?” Willa asked. She knew they wouldn’t guess 20-something, given the context of the conversation (also let’s be real). But Willa fully expected to hear the usual, low-skewing, ego-boosting answer.
The younger women looked at each other, thinking. Then Girl #2 said:
“Um, 40?”
Girl #1 squealed: “You should start a podcast!”
Allison scratched her nose with her middle finger, then raised her glass.
“Thanks. Maybe we will.”