Over the weekend, I got together with three of my girlfriends for some female bonding time. With the Super Bowl coming up, we figured this would be our last chance for several days to engage in a booze-fueled estrogenfest and, more importantly, we all wanted time away from home.
Having exhausted our two favorite topics to complain about by the time the third round of drinks arrived, the conversation turned to the economy. Specifically: the financial sacrifices we’re making because our husband and kids just don’t get it. (Okay, maybe we weren’t done bitching about our two favorite topics entirely.)
The scholar among us, whom we call Egghead, said she’s borrowing books from the library instead of spending her Saturday mornings browsing the racks at Barnes and Noble. My friend Ritzy, who loves her some designer-labels, has taken to shopping at consignment stores. A longtime fast food addict, my friend Speedy Mac is learning to cook dinners at home and brown bag her lunch the next day. And me? Well, I switched to a cheaper brand of vodka and have been saving electricity by not cleaning house very often.
After a pause while the waitress sat down a sinfully massive plate of nachos, Ritzy offhandedly remarked that she’s also cut back on visits to her salon. Instead of weekly manicures she’s ditched the acrylic tips in favor of the natural look, and she’d found that she can go 6 weeks between coloring sessions if she poofs her hair up a bit. We all nodded our own faded heads in sympathy as, one by one, we hurried to hide our similarly un-manicured hands.
By that time, the third martini must have hit me, because I chirped: “And, damn it, I miss my bikini waxes, too!”
“God yes,” Egghead agreed. “I’m going through razor blades like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Razor blades?” Speedy Mac laughed. “I tried Nair. The smell just about killed me!”
Ritzy slammed the rest of her drink and signaled for another round before saying, “Let me tell you, girls. Do NOT try giving yourself a Brazilian wax at home. Just trust me.”
We all grew quiet as the waitress set our drinks in front of us, unwilling to meet each others’ gaze. After two long years of regular booze-and-bitch sessions, we’d thought we had discussed just about every female topic under the sun. But that night we’d discovered a new one, and it wasn’t pretty.
Seriously, how do you look your girlfriends straight in the face after a conversation like that?