June 17, 2006

My Manhattan Afternoon

The other day I had the most Sex and the City afternoon, here in my hometown. It all started when I dropped by Saks. Usually I just go there to visit one of my old babysitters who works the jewelry counter, but the store had just marked down its spring clothes and I ran into a green halter top that begged me to take it home.

I went home and put on the halter. As with most tops, it was made for a woman with a bigger rack, but I put on my NuBra and strategically placed a safety pin and almost filled it up. I washed and dried my hair, put on makeup, and even tested three different lip colors before I realized I was about to be late for an appointment.

But it wasn’t just any appointment. It was an appointment with my therapist. I haven’t told you about him before because I didn’t have a therapist before. I’ve been seeing a Christian counselor to work on dealing with my grief about my mother’s death, but lately some other issues have cropped up that require some more intense work.**

So there I was, completely dressed and made up and on my way to my therapist’s office. It was so big city.

The decor of the therapist’s office didn’t match my New York daydream. In my imagination it was supposed to be beige and minimalist, but instead the walls were burgundy (very similar to the color of Drew’s favorite shirt) and there was lots of dark wood and heavy carpet.

No matter. It was a productive hour, during which I explained why I was there, using descriptive phrases like “lip plumper– it’s all the rage” and “Roy Orbison sunglasses” and “standing naked in the street with a sparkler up his ass.” The guy was very therapeutic, like a therapist should be, and I made an appointment to return.

Did I mention that I had to get a sitter to avoid taking the duo to the shrink with me? Ow. That was an expensive way to feel like an Upper East Sider. I made the best of it, though. After my session, I had an hour before I had to be home to relieve the babysitter, so I called Bill and arranged to meet him at a bar for a drink. That’s why I had taken such care in getting dressed in the first place. I hope you didn’t think I was trying to impress the therapist.

Bill and I met at a restaurant halfway between the office and home, and had a couple of drinks with no children in sight. The lady next to me was drinking a chartreuse concoction in a martini glass, and it was so lovely and summery looking that I thought briefly about ordering one. My liver accepts only white wine and gin, however, so I enjoyed a Sapphire and tonic and pretended it was every bit as delightful to look at.

As we drank and conversed, I was overcome with the confluence of so many factors that never occur simultaneously for me: the wearing of makeup! The stylish top! My sexy husband! The magnificent, child-free bar! The hip people around us (if you ignored the lady in the terrycloth shorts and Keds)!

I was so overwhelmed that I grabbed Bill’s face with both of my hands and kissed him in such a sexy manner that the people next to us muttered disapprovingly, “Get a room.”

We pretended we were leaving to get a room instead of hustling home and to pay the babysitter, putting an end to my make-believe big city afternoon.

So we ended up chez Glamore, snuggling on the sofa with our dirty boys, facing a dishwasher full of clean dishes that weren’t going to jump into the cabinets themselves, checking the computer for pictures of Finn at camp, and addressing the rest of the little bits and pieces that make up my decidedly un-big city life.

That was wasn’t so bad, either.

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**Don’t freak– my husband and children are fine.