A night out with the girls, after a tumultuous week at the office; heads turning as they were led to their table; the waiter taking a quick inventory of Blackberry’s, designer bags and bling; calculating his tip even before introducing himself. Once seated and situated, they immediately began bitching about co-workers and letting off steam, then somewhere between appetizers and the second round of margaritas things took an awkward turn.
Shana was the drama queen of the group; pampered, posh and completely plastic. There wasn’t a single person in the office that wasn’t aware of the fact that she didn’t have to work, she chose to; for walking around money. Whenever there was reason for an occasion, she made it a point to play hostess, then downplayed the maid and gourmet chef who not only worked the soiree, but were full time employees.
They had three children, with a live-in nanny who raised them rather than tended them. Ponte Vedra Beach is where they resided; in a sprawling 8,000 square foot oceanfront mansion with their own private stretch of beach; a showplace to be certain, just as Shana was a show piece to her husband.
Sure, she thrived on the attention her looks afforded her, but in truth she loathed the amount of time she was made to spend on her appearance. Yes, “made to.”
Her husband was the most sought after plastic surgeon in northeast Florida and had invested tens of thousands of dollars of his time and talent, on breast implants, tummy tuck and lipo after their last child was born and they were certain they wanted no more.
He hired a personal trainer, which came five mornings a week, to make certain she worked out, because quite frankly, he didn’t trust her to do it on her own; and the chef was to prepare all her meals and keep track of what she ate on a daily basis, so that at the end of the week he could assess her caloric intake and adjust her workout accordingly.
He put her on a routine Botox schedule, which just so happened to coincide with her Mercedes maintenance. Three thousand mile oil change, tire rotation and Botox injections, all in the same day, which she swore was just a coincidence.
As she drained the last of her third margarita, she confessed that he’d recently hinted that for her 43rd birthday he might be giving her a facelift, then burst into tears; professing how miserable she was, and that at the end of the day, all the money, clothes, jewelry, memberships and trips abroad did nothing to ease her loneliness.
Then in the very next breath she turned to me and asked if I knew how many calories were in a margarita. I told her I didn’t know and what difference did it make. She looked at me like I was crazy and said, “Are you kidding me? It makes ALL the difference! I don’t have the luxury you do, of having a husband who loves me unconditionally. Richard is surrounded by young, beautiful women every single day and the last thing in the world I want, is to be forty-three and single, with three kids and forced to take care of myself!”