Maisie assured me that if I wanted to get rid of it she could make it happen, and if I wanted to keep it, well, she believed with my body and my youth I would be back on the runway making bank two months after giving birth.
Maisie was right. I was back on the runway nine months later handing off baby girl Etta to whoever would take her while I was in hair, makeup, fitting, and walking. But I was no Heidi Klum. The weight did not just melt off no matter how much Etta nursed. Some body parts (read: boobs and belly) had shifted never to return to their original state. As hard as Maisie tried, the heavy-hitting designers were passing me up. The up-and-coming designers were willing to take a chance on me, but they couldn’t pay. I promised Maisie I didn’t care, just get me out there, so she did. And as Etta grew on the road, my bank account dwindled and so did my confidence.
After a few years, at the ripe age of twenty-four, I was a geriatric model, and having a toddler hanging off my hip wasn’t helping my manufactured image as a desirable, unattainable woman. Fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds were becoming the norm for agencies now. The more infantile the body, the more bookings a model got. The thick Bordelon backside was no longer in vogue. Though I had it in me to work hard to make a lot of things happen, heroin chic was not in the cards.
Then Etta turned four. I knew in a year I would have to put her in kindergarten and we could no longer live on the road. I suppose Etta was a convenient excuse to get out of the modeling business, but the reality was I hadn’t really been in it for the past two years and my meager savings proved it. Also, I was tired. Tired of constantly moving around and tired of doing it all on my own. I was never in one place long enough to get past a third date with anyone. In truth, most of the men I had dated were not even worth the second date, I was just desperate for adult companionship.
We landed at the international terminal at the San Francisco Airport, one big bag between us. I hailed a cab with the efficiency of a global traveler, and forty minutes later we were wrapped in a blanket of damp fog on Aunt Viv’s doorstep in San Francisco’s Outer Richmond neighborhood. Etta held my hand, waiting anxiously to meet the only real mother and true companion I ever had.
By the time I finished my story, Lola was on her third margarita. “Let me get this straight: You were a professional model and THAT is what you wear to Zumba class?” Lola asked before breaking out in hysterics.
What can I say? Milan, Tokyo, Paris . . . that was a lifetime ago.
A dozen years as friends and Lola is still my toughest style critic and most fierce wing-woman, watching my back and always looking out for my front. I pull myself from the memory of our first meeting and get back to my friend on the phone. “No, Lola, my vagina did not die this summer. She’s woke and worried about climate change. Now, will you listen?” I say, sucking my teeth like a surly tween.
“Okay, okay, whatchoo got?”
“Big start to the year, Lo, I might be snagging myself a billionaire.” I know this little nugget of intel will make my best friend’s day.
“Did you swipe right on a billionaire?!?!?!? I didn’t think they say that sort of stuff in their profiles. Was he standing in front of a big yacht? Maybe he just cleans it, or maybe he does own it. Probably big bucks, small Johnson.” I should have known Lola would fly right by my juicy admissions gossip and dive directly into my personal, or lack thereof, life.
“‘Johnson’? Really? That’s so old school. And, ewwwww, you know I don’t use dating apps.”
“We need to change that. You should be using something.”
“I do—abstinence.”
“Two years of no sex since Michael is not abstinence, it’s called celibacy, girlfriend. Michael was fine, I’m not saying he wasn’t, but no man is worth livin’ a nun’s existence. I’m willing to bet my middle child you are the only single woman in America not on at least one dating app. You’re virtually nonexistent in the modern dating world. I’ll come over tonight and set up your profile. Let’s bring you into the 2000s; it’ll be fun.” Lola rarely takes no for an answer.
“First, Tommy’s your least favorite child, so that’s a pretty low wager. And second, the billionaire I’m talking about is Christopher Lawton of Lawton, Springfield, and Smith Venture Capital on Sand Hill Road, best friends with Sergey Brin. He and his wife tore down three houses to build their mega-mansion in Presidio Heights. It was on the front page of San Francisco magazine a few months ago: The house has a helipad on the roof so the Mister can fly to Palo Alto for work and avoid 101 traffic. Anyway, they were the first ones to apply to Fairchild this year. I got a lovely note from the Missus. Apparently, her son is a reincarnated lama.”
“A trust-fund lama—that should be a box to check under ‘Race’ on the common app.”
“The category should probably be a bit broader: Caucasian, Hispanic, Black, Pacific Islander, Latino, Religious Icon.”
Lola lets loose a throaty cackle before taking a turn for the serious. “Do you know for sure the Lawtons are still married? Have you googled them yet?” For Lola, all roads lead back to my relationship status.
“Yes. They’re still married. You know my sensitivity to that since . . .”
“Go-Home-Jerome.” Lola answers for me. “I almost forgot about him. It’s bad enough to cheat, but then to cheat badly, such a loser.”
Pathetically, I was the one who felt like the loser in my first so-called adult relationship. Jerome and I dated for three months about four years after Etta and I settled in San Francisco. He was the first guy to have even an inkling of real potential. Our dates were always a fabulous adventure: wine tasting in Sonoma, dinner in the tiny beach town of Bolinas, a mid-afternoon work hooky date to the movies complete with making out in the dark. And then he went on an island vacation with some “buddies” for ten days. I did a boss job hiding the fact I was counting down the hours until he returned. Aunt Viv took eight-year-old Etta to a church picnic the day Jerome returned so I invited him over for brunch and for proximity to my bed. We passed right by the orange juice and pecan waffles. Jerome was unbuttoning my blouse when I noticed a distinct tan line on his ring finger and my heart dropped. I shoved him hard with both hands shouting, “GO HOME, JEROME!!!!” I spent the next week crying and plotting a revenge I knew I was too soft to act on. For some extra salt in my humiliation wound, I also had to ignore the twenty-plus phone messages he left begging me not to tell his wife. Go-Home-Jerome, Michael, and a handful of dates sprinkled over the years make up the extent of my romantic history. After all that it was easier to sideline my romantic life and focus my energies on Etta.
“Earthquake drill—gotta run.” That’s our safe word when we want out of a conversation. Well, it’s my safe word. Lola will talk about anything; no subject is off limits.
“Liar. Hit me up later.”
“Bye, lady.”