Lauren Takes Leave by Julie Gerstenblatt Page B

“It’s just the way I’m built. It’s hereditary.”
    “Jodi, we’ve been over this. Just because your
grandparents were Holocaust survivors does not mean you are meant to be thin.”
    “Say what you will. My grandmother always had weight
issues before the war. After? Never. ”
    “But…” I trail off. Typical Jodi. Her logic is so flawed.
And yet it’s delivered with such confidence that I don’t even know where to
begin to untangle it and set her straight.
    Jodi motions to the waitress, who nods her head and comes
our way. “I’m starving .”
    “The mandarin orange soufflé is great,” I suggest as Jodi
opens the menu and looks it over.
    “Jell-O mold? Gross.” She shivers theatrically, then looks
up at the waitress. “I’ll just have a bacon cheeseburger with fries. And a
Coke.”
    “Diet?” The waitress asks.
    “Ugh, no. Regular. And two pickles, please.”
    I order the so-called gross lo-cal Jell-O mold and pass
the waitress our menus.
    Jodi continues our conversation. “Anyway, it’s spring and
I’m bathing-suit ready. Even got waxed by my bikiniologist. Now, there’s someone with true talent. You should see what she can do down there.”
    “I’ll just take your word for it, thanks.”
    “True artistry. But that’s not why I called you for
lunch.” She butters a popover, bites off a piece, and rolls her eyes skyward as
she chews. “Ah. Strawberry butter. So good.” She finishes that piece and tears
off another. “Here’s the thing. I need your help with something.”
    “Yeah, with what to wear Saturday night. You already
mentioned that in your text.” I stare at the basket filled with warm, crusty
popovers and consider what my thighs would have to say about them. Instead, I
unwrap the world’s thinnest breadstick and try to savor its crunchiness.
    Jodi waves her hand in the air. “The outfit is a
diversion. I need to talk to you about something serious .” She leans in
close, across the table. I lean in, too.
    Jodi whispers, “I want to go back to work.”
    “What!”
    “Quiet! Lee can’t know that I’m thinking about this.”
    “Why do we have to whisper? Is he here?”
    “You know what I mean,” she says, relaxing a bit and
moving back to her popover. “He’d kill me if he knew.”
    I have to process this for a second. Why would a husband not want his wife to work? “Because he likes you at home.”
    She echoes it back, nodding solemnly. “Because he likes me
at home.”
    Oh, the irony of my life and hers. “Unbelievable!” I
state.
    “Isn’t it, though,” she adds, thinking only about herself.
“I mean, I like making dinners and everything, don’t get me wrong. I’ve become
quite the little homemaker in the eight years since I stopped teaching. And
it’s been great to watch the kids grow up, finish preschool, go off to
kindergarten…but before I know it Jossie will be in middle school…” She trails
off.
    I think about all that carpooling, all that tennis.
“You’re bored,” I guess.
    She pinches her thumb and index finger together and makes
a face. “Little bit.”
    All I want in this life is to be a little bit bored and a
little bit too skinny.
    I dig in my pocketbook for my small notebook and quickly
scribble down a thought before it vacates my mind completely: work v.
stay-at-home dilemmas , with an exclamation point and a question mark
following.
    “What are you doing?” Jodi asks.
    “Research,” I say. The beginnings of an idea are forming.
It could be an interesting academic topic, if I could find some existing
research, test some theories, build on the body of literature that already
exists in the field, and write it up for a scholarly journal. Maybe I really
should start thinking about advancing my career in education.
    While I’m at it, I could become Miss America and start
growing my own hemp, because that’s how likely it is that I’ll act on this
notation. I close the notebook and push it to the bottom of my handbag.
    “You can