Melanie Gideon - Wife 22

“I’m going to count to three,” she says.

I grab her wrist, suddenly panicked. “I’m not ready.”

She looks at me calmly.

“No, please. Okay, wait, wait, just give me a sec-I’m almost ready.”

“One,” she says and rips off the strip.

I shriek. “What happened to ‘two’?”

“It’s better to be surprised,” she says, surveying the area, frowning. “You don’t use retinol products, do you?”

On my vatoo , no.

“The first time is the worst. Each time it will be easier.” She hands me a mirror.

“I don’t need to see,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. “Just finish it.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “Do you want to take a break?”

“No,” I practically shout.

She raises her eyebrows at me.

“I’m sorry. What I meant to say is please keep going before I lose my nerve, and I’ll do my very best not to cry.”

“It’s all right if you do. You wouldn’t be the first,” she says.

I waltz out of Hilary’s shop with a half-off coupon for my next wax and an aftercare admonition (DO NOT take any Dead Sea salt baths for at least twenty-four hours-no problem there, Hilary) and a sexy little secret that nobody knows but me. I smile at other women I pass on the street, feeling like I’ve joined the tribe of impeccably groomed women, women who are taking care of business down there . I feel so lighthearted (and relieved I don’t have to endure that pain for another month) that I stop at Green Light Books to look at magazines, something I rarely do because I’m always in such a hurry.

Michelle Williams is on the cover of Vogue . Apparently, according to Vogue , MiWi is the new it-girl. There’s a two-page spread of MiWi’s Night on the Town in Austin. Here’s the lovely MiWi taking a dip at Barton Springs. Here she is sitting at the bar at Fado, drinking a Green Flash Le Freak. And here she is an hour later trying on the skinniest, hottest jeans at Luxe Apothetique. Wasn’t Michelle the it-girl two years ago, too? Do they recycle it-girls? That doesn’t seem fair. Shouldn’t they give other it-girls like me a chance?

I T -G IRL A LICE B UCKLE’S N IGHT O UT FROM A NSWERING THE P HONE TO P ARKING, TO S INGING H ORRIBLY O FF K EY IN THE C AR. F OUR HOURS WITH A L B U ON A F RIDAY N IGHT

6:01 P.M.: Answering her cellphone (something she will later regret)

“Yes, of course I want to go to a movie about a beautiful French woman who owns a banana plantation in the Congo who is eventually macheted to death by the men she used to employ,” says Alice Buckle, a forty-four-year-old mother and wife who unfortunately still doesn’t have a bikini body even though she’s lost eight pounds recently (the truth is, 130 pounds at forty-four looks very different from 130 pounds at twenty-four). “I’m looking forward to having a man with extremely long legs knee my chair for the entire show,” says Alice.

6:45 P.M.: AlBu spotted hyperventilating

It-girl Alice Buckle circles around and around the mall parking lot looking for a spot, muttering “get the hell out of my way, cow,” to all the people who are also circling around the mall parking lot looking for a spot. “What the hell, I’ll just park illegally,” cries Alice. “It could be worse,” she laughs gaily, as she runs to the theater. “This could be opening night for Toy Story 8 .”

6:55 P.M: AlBu in enormous line at ticket counter

“It’s opening night for Toy Story 8 ,” reports Alice Buckle.

7:20 P.M.: It-Girl Alice Buckle crawling over a bunch of old people in her not-ready-for-bikini body to get to the seat her best friend, Nedra, saved for her

“You just missed the best part-where the son was conscripted into the Hutu army,” says Nedra.

7:25 P.M.: AlBu fast asleep

9:32 P.M.: AlBu spotted pulling into neighbor’s driveway mistaking it for her own

AlBu’s night vision is impaired. Her mood darkens, worrying about early-onset macular degeneration. Mood improves after listening to “Dance with Me” by Orleans in the car. “This reminds me so much of high school,” she cries, then she really begins to cry. “It’s so unfair. How come French women look so good without makeup? Maybe if every woman in America stopped wearing makeup we’d all look good, too. After a few months, that is.”

10:51 P.M.: AlBu goes to bed without washing off her makeup

“It was a magical night, but I won’t lie. Being an it-girl is exhausting,” admits Alice as she crawls into bed. “Roll over, darling, you’re snoring,” she says, tapping her husband on the shoulder, who promptly licks her on the face. “Jampo!” Alice cries, gathering up her tiny dog in her arms. “I thought you were William!” It’s hard to be angry at the dog for kicking her husband out of bed when he’s so cute and spirited to boot. The two snuggle up together and in a few hours, Alice wakes to find the nice present Jampo has left on her husband’s pillow.

“Excuse me, but are you planning on buying that magazine?” interrupts a young saleswoman.

“Oh-sorry.” I close the Vogue , smoothing out the cover. “Why, do you want to look at it?”

She points to a handwritten sign. “You’re not allowed to read the magazines. We try and keep them pristine for people who are actually buying them.”

“Really? Then how are you supposed to know if you want to buy them?”

“Look on the cover. The cover tells you everything that’s inside.” She gives me a dirty look.

I put the magazine back on the rack. “This is exactly why magazines are dying,” I say.

That night, while the kids are cleaning up after dinner, I announce to William that something about cookies is wrong with my computer and will he please come help me. This is a lie. I’m perfectly capable of getting rid of my own cookies.

“Peter can help you,” he says.

“It’s easy, Mom. All you do is go to preferences and-”

“I’ve already tried that,” I interrupt. “It’s more complicated. William, I need you to take a look.”

I follow him into my office and shut the door.

“It’s no big deal,” he says, walking to my desk. “You click on the apple, then go-”

I unbutton my jeans and slip them off.

“To preferences,” he finishes.

“William,” I say, stepping out of my panties.

He turns around and stares at me and says nothing.

“Ta-da.”

He has a strange look on his face. I can’t tell if he’s appalled or turned on.

“I did this for you,” I say.

“You did not,” he says.

“Who else would I do it for?”

What was I thinking? This is completely backfiring. Isn’t sudden bikini-line grooming one of the sure signs that your spouse is cheating on you? I’m not cheating, but I am flirting with a man who is not my husband who has just admitted I bring him pleasure, which has brought me pleasure, which has resulted in a sudden surge in my libido, which has led to the first bikini wax of my life. Does that count? Is it possible he knows?