“On Womanhood”

Josie found the note, on one of those wishy-washy afternoons, at her office desk where it was peeking out from the pile of still-bound-to-be completed worksheets she’d ought to wrap up for her boss hours ago. Unsurprisingly so, she hadn’t. 

Unsurprisingly so, she wasn’t planning to anytime soon either. 

Being preoccupied with her usual stewy reveries it took Jodie a while to detect the message, though when she did it was apparent who left it there. 

She groaned not at all flummoxed by the heart-shaped, written in an overly twee manner invitation. One that could only belong to the equally twee, heart-shaped coworkers (all named Evelyn, which was – to say the least – rather unsettling) from the all very feminine and very menopausal women media management group, the ones that you’d be dumbfounded by not leaving a cloying note at your professional IT management desk. That was what they always did. 

For Jodie, it was the fifth such message she found jutting out from the piles over piles of her seemingly endless reports.

In their syrupy-walloped note following could be read: 

Dear Jodie from IT Support Management!! 

We’ve been waiting for you sooo long to show up at our weekly chit-chatting session the previous week (SO LONG that it almost felt like dying, that's how Evelyn put it) but you were probably hard-pressed with your work so no biggie!! 

This time however we would love to see you lady!!! Don’t be shy and join us we’re so much fun, not fuddy-duddy at all!!! 

Ps: it is not mandatory but we would love you to bring some homemade pastries of your liking since we all do it - but is there a sweet tooth that doesn’t tho?? XXX

Can’t wait to see you there!!! 

Yours with love and anticipation, 

4E, 

They were well… something. 

Something purely annoying. Something unduly buddy-buddy with exclamation marks. Something that could be described in many ways, none of which exactly spot on. 

And besides, who uses fuddy-duddy these days?

Jodie sighed again. It was a very long, very frazzled sight.

She breathed in. 

The note was corny, out of the ark even. She should just throw it away and pretend, the way she always did, like it just happened to be there for the fifth time by the sole mistake, never meant to be left at her desk.

But today it seemed different. She pouted her lips, not yet ready to dispassionately mangle the letter in her fist. 

A certain conceit unfolded in her mind. It felt as if the massage was the North Pole magnet pulling her closer, and she - the South Pole magnet - let herself be attracted, intoxicated by the force, brushing it tenderly with her fingers, acting almost but not quite motherly, taking care of the unwanted (or maybe finally wanted) child. 

The note was a siren song lure and Jodie - a foolish corsair - allowed the seduction to draw her closer and closer, so she could kiss these always slightly parted, always beguile welcoming ocean's lips. Swiftly and gently, so she could admire the glittering surface, oblivious to the immersed atrocities. 

She breathed out. 

Fine. She’ll go. The worst thing that can happen to her is having to suffer hours of humdrum and schmaltzy heart-to-hearts. 

So, what is there to lose really? 

***

“We can’t believe you made it!” 

In real life, they were even more exclamation points-like. 

Jodie, already regretting her moment of mind eclipse, coerced a smile and propelled a plate of store-bought flapjacks towards Evelyn that opened the door for her.

Jodie couldn’t help but take a glance. And then, she couldn’t help but scrutinize her. Evelyn number one (that was how Jodie managed to tell them apart, by creating names based on their characteristics) was the living example of glacé. Her perfumes redolent of milk, cinnamon, and honey, her voice like a dulcet, silver-toned pillowcase, her eyes velvety fondant au chocolat. That was Evelyn number one. The Queen mother, the doyenne, the goddess. 

“Mmm smells yum-yum, are these homemade?” 

Who unironically says yum-yum? 

“Yes, just took them out from the oven” She lied. 

Nobody needed to know these were mass-produced, probably not even an oven, homemade by the name alone flapjacks. 

“Come in, come in! Ladies gonna be thrilled! We bet whether you would come or not. I knew you would, but others well… let’s just say they are not so sanguine!” 

That was the first time Jodie even heard that word, thus she wasn’t sure whether she should expect them to be excited or remotely disappointed by her presence. 

By any means, she didn’t care. 

As they entered the living room, Jodie had to muster all the remaining willpower to keep herself from turning around, taking the entire plate of flapjacks, and steer clear of this palsy-walsy cohort of worker bees, governed by the Queen bee herself. 

Everything within the eye's reach was marked by their viscid sweetness. Porcelain figurines cluttered every table, every cabinet, every shelf – pink elephants twirling to the soundless tune, weeny mice drinking from equally eensy mugs, antelopes spellbound with the latest New Yorker issues, and deadpan cheetahs, with their upright stances, wearing chi-chi linen suits. 

It seemed like the four-headed Hydra turned its candy-coated parlor into a kitsch Shangri-La.

Very viva la vida. 

However, it wasn't the cluttered area that posed the threat. It was them. The bees. The workers. The swarm. They all leered at Jodie with narrowed, mascara lashes eyes, each with a slightly different expression on their face. Each looked like a conundrum, each puzzle piece that she knew was meant to unite but was at a loss on how to put them back together.

“Oh my, girls look, it’s Jodie!”

“Woah, I can’t believe she actually made the appearance”

“Don’t be mean Evelyn!” 

“I’m not, Evelyn, it’s a non-frills remark” 

“Oh you and your non-frills remarks Evelyn, always on point” 

“Jodie, did you bring flapjacks? Are they homemade?”

Before Jodie could even think of opening her mouth, number one pre-empted her answer. 

“It is! Fresh out of the oven!” 

The Queen was acting so naturally, so casually that it made Jodie wonder what sort of an actress she was and was there a limit to such performance? Or maybe there wasn’t any, it was more like a lifetime ability you are one day forced to stick to and then you need to play along with it for the rest of your mere and boring existence. 

“I wonder if they are warm”

“Evelyn basically said fresh out of the oven girl, so they had to be!” 

Jodie didn't think this through. Even mass-produced pastries had their limits.

“Actually, they might have gone a bit cold on my way here, sorry” 

“Don’t worry about it, If there’s a need I’ll heat them in the microwave. Now come on, no one else is invited, so we can officially start!”

***

And they did officially start. Everyone got their glass, into which moments later Evelyn number one poured wine - rose or white - evenly and according to preference. Then they clinked their glasses, the sound spreading vibratingly through the living room.

Josie took the first sips hesitantly, wanting to stay on the qui vive, just in case anything terrible happens. 

What if they find out about the rip-off origins of the flapjack? 

What if at that very moment, the wine finds its way into their heads, making them lighter and a little tipsy, intoxicate them with the idea of taking revenge on Jodie? Eye for an eye. 

What if that revenge involved throwing her into the oven and turning into a homemade flapjack? 

Such delusion made her feel childish and loopy. 

What could such petite women possibly do to her? And why would they even? She was overplaying this. As always.

The next sip of wine was generous. 

“Sooo Jodie, since that’s your first time with us”

Each of the four hydra heads giggled, their little bodies shaking robustly.

Jodie forced a grimace and took another swig to wash down her growing distaste. A rivulet of wine flowed down her gullet, tranquilizing her senses.

“It is” She retorted observantly.

“What did we do that finally made you honor us with this visit?”

This certainly came from the non-frills remark Evelyn.

“Don’t be churlish Evelyn”

“Yeah Evelyn, that was so bad-mannered”

“Unladylike”

“Very crude Evelyn”

“That’s such an exaggeration Evelyns! I was just asking Jodie a non-frills question!”

“Sush ladies. Now, as I was saying”

The Queen Bee rose tactfully along with her chair and, with a finesse seldom for such maneuvers, positioned herself adjacent to Jodie. She could feel her sweet breath on the back of her neck.

“Would you mind telling us something about yourself? Anything really”

Once again, in the span of a dozen or so minutes, four pairs of curious gazes turned in her direction. Each stared so intently that Jodie felt as if they were boring a hole in her. With a feeling that if she didn't answer in a jiffy, they would drill through to the other side, she gulped down the rest of her wine, brooding over a characterless feature of hers.

“Um so, I have a dog, and her name’s well… Evelyn”

They looked at her funnily. And then – before Jodie could even regret her choice of trivia – all of them burst into a sudden, hearty laughter. Four buzzing bees.

“You’re a hoot girl”

“Ever thought about doing your own stand-up?”

That was certainly not the reaction Jodie was foretelling. She didn’t mind, however, since it was bashfully pleasant to engulf herself in all the flattery.

“Let’s talk about boys!”

“Again? Evelyn, we talk about them all the time”

“Not ALL the time Evelyn, if so, only most of the time”

“Exactly, it’s dull”

“Very banal”

“Very conventional”

“Love is never dull or banal or conventional ladies!”

“I know, let’s ask Jodie! What’s your ideal type?”

“The man of your dreams Jodie, spill the beans!”

“Do you like them bulky or rangy?”

“Bony or beefy?

They looked at each other knowingly, in silent agreement that each of them picked out its hidden agenda. It was the sheer demonstration of their exclusiveness. The knowledge that only the inhabitants of the hive could cognize. An Aide-memoire of their inner sisterhood to which someone like Jodie – a pesticide geared up to quash the swarm and lead the Queen Bee’s res publica to topple – will never have, and ought never to have, access to.

“Blondes or brunettes? I have a soft spot for blondes”

“She has a soft spot for the blonde”

“Hey, Evelyn! Don't expose me like that!”

“Between a vampire, a pirate, and a werewolf, which one would you choose?”

“Speaking about banal…”

They kept bombarding her with questions, like stereotypical adolescents, with sparkles in their eyes and a bonny enthusiasm that would normally throw her off immediately and for good, but not this time. Surprisingly, Jodie found the idea of vamoosing half-hearted. In the proximity of this exemplary vibrant swarm, she felt truly at ease. Something inside her that she hadn't confronted in a long time woke up from its prolonged hibernation. Her old crony, womanhood.

So Jodie, with a broad smile on her face, began to answer.

***

She thought she could grow to genuinely like these dainty girls. No longer a stranger but still not quite a member. Somewhere between she found herself floating pleasantly, not minding herself being pulled towards these women. Not minding herself identifying with them, sympathizing with them, yearning for their approval, famishing when she couldn’t get it, noshing when they let her have it.

She felt at ease, headlight from all the wine she had poured into herself, not at all perturbed by it but rather intoxicated by the idea of belonging. 

The person guilty of interrupting Jodie’s daydreaming was Evelyn number one, who suddenly stood up and exclaimed something (in her high-pitched but nevertheless mumbled manner) about the burned meal, running hastily to the kitchen. 

Then all that the remaining four of them – three-headed Evelines’ fuselage and one-headed Jodie’s delineation – could hear was a cacophony of her jaunty footsteps, bustling around with a song escaping her thin lips, a zippy tune that only she – and probably the three-headed fusion – was familiar with. 

“And now, my ladies!” 

She chanted, her heart-shaped silhouette emerging from the kitchen. She was carrying the silver ashet covered by the lid.  

Something about the dish made Josie feel alerted. She couldn’t take her eyes off it and she only did so when the immaculately polished silver started to dazzle her. 

Eveline number one, however, visibly psyched, moved even closer, to such proximity that Jodie could scent the opaque fragrance gushing out from the lid. 

It smelled scrumptious. 

“Kitchens specialty, cream de la cream of today’s meeting, the main course on the menu… men’s head on the platter stuffed with goodies!” 

Josie let out a thrilled bawl. 

“Can’t wait to dig up, right Josie?”