Mutually Assured Destruction

I am so hungry I could eat my purse. It sits innocently on the passenger seat like a giant candy bar. It’s a buttery-smooth chocolate-brown Bottega Veneta Cassette bag, so it would be a delicious, if expensive, snack. Instead, I grab a tin of sugar-free mints and pop one in my mouth. They say mint suppresses appetite, but it’s not true.

The light turns green, and I slam on the gas. My SUV jumps from the light with a jerk. I take a deep breath and lift my foot. It’s 10 am on a Sunday, and the roads are nearly empty. There’s no need to speed.

A few minutes later, I pull into the restaurant parking lot to meet my friend Tina for brunch. I’m intermittent fasting, and I’ve timed my fast so that I can eat at 10 am. This means I stopped eating at 6 pm last night. My husband, Ryan, balked at the early bird dinner, but to be supportive, he stopped complaining and made himself a late-night sandwich.

It’s a chilly spring day, but my old Burberry Trench keeps the cold away. My mother said to invest in pieces that would last a lifetime, but at 20 years old, my coat is pushing the lifespan of that advice. Tina climbs out of her ancient Mini Cooper on the other side of the nearly empty lot. She waves, and I wave back. I love Tina. She’s a librarian and gives the best book suggestions. We meet in front of the restaurant door and hug each other tightly.

“It’s so good to see you!” Tina says with a sweet smile. She is short with funky orange hair. It looks perfect with her pale complexion. She adjusts her horn-rimmed glasses and opens the door. 

“It’s good to see you,” I say. “When’s the last time we hung out?”

“Christmas,” Tina admits. “Things have been crazy. I have to work weekends now. They’ve cut some of the staff at the library.”

“Yikes.” I’m secretly grateful for my career in supply chain management. I might not get to read novels all day, but I do make boatloads of money.

The restaurant is sleek, with cement walls and modern furniture. It’s too Eurotrash for 10 am, but the pancakes are amazing. We’re walking in when I freeze. A group of women sit at a table near the front door. It’s the Mommy Maffia, a group of neighbors who rule the neighborhood with bribes, intimidation, and exclusionary potlucks. I grab Tina’s arm to yank her back, but I’m too late.

“Phillipa!” Amy Royce calls with a smile. Amy is a 50-year-old oncologist with three kids. The other women look up. Anusha Gupta, the woman across the street with twin girls, gives me a welcoming nod. Amanda Howell gives me a tired grimace, but she has a 6-month-old baby, so everything that woman does looks tired. A dark blonde head turns, and Crystal Jamison, the Donna of the Mommy Mafia, sneers.

Looking at my Facebook page, you would think Crystal is my best friend. There are dozens of pictures of the two of us at neighborhood barbeques, dressed up at fundraisers, and the finish line of 5K races. Crystal and I are not friends, but Crystal takes pictures like a tween who has skipped her ADHD medication. She owns a small insurance agency and considers the barrage of selfies a marketing strategy. I wouldn’t mind, but I look like shit in every picture, while her images are carefully edited to look amazing. It’s obnoxious.

“How are you guys doing?” I ask as I walk up. I know some of the women but not others. Most are from the neighborhood, and it’s clear I wasn’t invited.

“Hello, Phillipa!” Crystal says with a fake Atlantic accent, though she is from Wisconsin. “I can’t believe you’re up this early. I would have invited you, but I figured it would be too early for you lucky childfree folks.” In one sentence, she has insinuated I am a lazy sloth, I am barren, and that I have a drinking problem. I stand directly behind her, so she has to bend backward to talk to me.

“It’s fine,” I say. “My friend Tina and I are catching up.” See, I have friends without you. I introduce Tina around the table.

“You should join us!” Amy says, gesturing to empty seats at the end of the table. The others nod, and I am about to make an excuse because I would rather eat behind the dumpster, but the waitress comes up behind me.

“I’ll get you some silverware,” she says perkily. She wants the extra tips that come with a full table.

There’s no polite way to refuse, so Tina and I sit. At least Anusha is between Crystal and I. The other women resume chatting, and the waitress brings us coffee. The mommies have Bloody Marys and mimosas, and one woman gets what looks like straight bourbon. This does not sell me on motherhood.

“So, what have you all been reading lately?” I ask Tina, including the others out of politeness. Tina opens her mouth to speak, but Crystal butts in.

“OMG, Phillipa, who has time to read an actual book?” she laughs, and the others chuckle. “I haven’t been able to finish a book since Jessamyn joined dance. We are constantly busy.” It is the stupidest brag I have ever heard. Crystal’s ten-year-old is self-sufficient, and so mature that she’s probably already investing in a 401K.

“Do you have kids?” Amy asks Tina.

“No, I have cats,” Tina says, and I love her all the more.

“Smart,” Amy says. “Kids are a pain in the ass. Cats are cute.”

“Still, children are the most rewarding thing you can do with your life,” Crystal says. “I can’t imagine life without them.”

“I like your haircut,” I say to Crystal to change the subject. She has cut her long, blonde hair into a chic bob.

“Thanks, I’m just too busy to keep up with long hair,” she gestures to my shoulder-length mane. “I mean, who has the time?” She is full of shit because everyone knows short hairstyles take more maintenance than long ones.

We muddle through brunch, and I skip the pancakes and order adult food. When my eggs benedict arrive, I instantly regret it. The yolks seep grossly over my English muffins, and the hollandaise tastes like rotten mayo. I pick at my food until the waitress takes it away.

“Would you like a box?” she loudly asks.

“No, thanks,” I wave away the disappointment.

“OMG, Phillipa, you barely eat,” Crystal laughs. “I don’t know how you do it. I would be starving. But then again, I run so much, I’m always hungry.” She glances at my stomach.

I want to tell Crystal to stop talking like she’s on the Disney channel. Instead, I shrug. “I’m just not feeling the eggs,” I admit.

“Ah, rough night?” she grins. “A little hair of the dog might do help.” This bitch seriously needs to stop calling me an alcoholic, especially since she’s had three Bloody Marys before noon.

Crystal insists on calling the waitress to take a picture, and the woman patiently takes several. I try to tilt my head at the right angle, but I’m never sure what the right angle is. I am sure she has captured my puffy belly and double chin. We say goodbye, and the ladies stumble to their cars. I hug Tina and promise to get together again soon. Then I get in my car and head straight for the drive-thru, ordering several breakfast sandwiches.

At home, I unlock the door. My dog Fredo jumps on me, and I raise the bag out of reach of his furry nose.

“I got Jimmy’s,” I call out. The TV is on, so Ryan isn’t far.

“I thought you went to brunch?” My husband comes in and grabs the bag.

“Crystal and the Mommie Mafia were there,” I tell him as he digs through the food.

“No wonder you lost your appetite,” he says.

I tell Ryan and Fredo about the brunch fiasco, and they listen while demolishing 4,000 calories of fast food. I take a sandwich and phone and plop on the couch. I open Facebook, and an alert pops up. Crystal has posted the pictures from brunch. I sigh and look at them. The ladies are gathered around the table. Naturally, I look at myself first.

I look terrible. My neck is thick and loose, and my nose is weird. My stomach hangs over my pants. I look like an aging rhinoceros, and I want to cry. Next to me, Anusha and Crystal are slim and pretty.

“Bitch!” I curse. My husband looks up from his sausage biscuit.

“What?”

“These pictures are terrible,” I say as I show him. Tears congeal at the corner of my dumb rhino eyes, and my nose runs.

“I’m sure they’re adorable,” my husband says loyally. I show him, and his poker face is excellent to his credit.

“See?” I insist.

“Well, it might not be the best angle,” he admits. “Don’t you have your Facebook on lockdown? No one can see your tagged photos.”

“I do,” I cry. “But everyone can see her photos, and everyone we know knows her, so everyone can still see them.” I am being dramatic. It’s just a stupid photo, but I’m frustrated. Maybe I’m losing my mind, or maybe I’m about to start my period, which is pretty much the same thing.

“Just ask her to take it down,” Ryan says with a logic that makes me want to shove his half-eaten sandwich in his ear.

“If I tell her, she’ll know she got to me, and she’ll know that I’m insecure, and she will have the power,” I explain.

Ryan doesn’t have a response, so he says, “If you don’t tell her to take it down, then I will.”

“You can’t do that!” I shriek. “Then she will know that my husband thinks I’m ugly, and that’s way worse.”

“I don’t think you’re ugly,” he protests.

“That’s not the point!”

“Just text her and ask her to remove them,” he insists. “It’s no big deal.”

“Do you think so?”

“She’s a decent person,” he says. “Just text her.” It takes me a few minutes, but I craft what I think is a reasonable message.

“Hi, Crystal!” I text. “I’m a little uncomfortable with the pictures you just posted. I was wondering if you could take the ones with me in them down.” I know that is all the pictures, but I can’t help it.

“That looks great! Ryan says after reading it. “She’s not a monster. She’ll take them down.”

I click send, and my stomach lurches, but Ryan is right. She isn’t a monster.

I get a message a few minutes later.

“OMG! Phillipa, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You are gorgeous! You do not need to worry about any of that. All of us are aging. It’s just part of life. You are still so pretty!”

I sigh, “Yeah, she’s not going to take it down.”

“Uh oh,” he says, looking at his phone. “You’re not going to like this.”

I snatch his phone. Crystal has zoomed in on herself, Anusha, and me and posted just that picture with the caption. “Look at these hotties!” I’ve made it worse, and I want to vomit. I throw the rest of my sandwich away.

“I’m making an appointment at the medi-spa,” I tell my husband tonelessly.

“You don’t need it,” he tells me but is smart enough not to argue.

Two weeks later, I’m in the lobby of the calm, posh offices of the best medi-spa in town. At least, that’s what Google reviews say. I like it already. It’s chill and discrete, and they have cucumber water, so I can pretend I’m at an actual spa.

I play on my phone as I wait. I’m unsure what I want them to do, but I’ve researched lip fillers, Botox, a tummy tuck, and maybe something to do with my jawline. I’ll chat with them and figure it out.

As I sit, the consult room doors open, and a blonde woman walks out. I almost choke on my tongue. I thank the gods of Karma, Justice, and Righteous Vengeance. I know immediately what to do. I step outside the office and stand in the hallway near the welcome sign. As I wait, a sinister grin crosses my face. I revel in the power of an evil plan.

The door opens, and Crystal Jamison walks through. She does a doubletake as she sees me, then looks frantically for an escape like the cornered rat that she is.

“Crystal!” I call out. “I can’t believe we bumped into each other. So, this is your secret!” Before she can speak, I wrap my arm around her shoulder and take a selfie of us in front of the office sign. I take several pictures before she can shake me off.

“Don’t you dare,” she hisses. “If you show those, you’ll expose yourself at the same time.”

“What are you talking about?” I smile. “You are gorgeous! Everyone will love it!” She wants to protest but is unwilling to make a scene. I walk back into the office and ask at the desk for the bathroom. I may get kicked out, but I don’t care. I’ll go to the second-best Medispa in town.

The bathrooms are as lovely as the lobby. I post on Facebook while sitting on the toilet. I’ve chosen a horrible picture of Crystal with a weird grimace, the sign in the background. I caption it, “Botox Buddies!” I set the picture as open to everyone. I’m making an ass of myself, but I can’t resist. It’s mutually assured destruction, and I can’t wait to push that big red button. I’m tired of the bullshit mirage that people like Crystal weaponize against others.

As I exit the bathroom, I expect to get kicked out. Instead, the attendant ushers me to a consult room where an aesthetician waits. The woman is pretty in a noncombative way, and I leave with subtle lip fillers and a suggestion to think about the other procedures. The woman must sense my manic mood and wisely puts me in plastic surgery time out. I refuse to look at my phone as I walk through the parking lot to my car. It is a beautiful day, and I’m feeling pretty good.