The woman living next door is a friend. Our apartment building is a new build. It has apartments in various sizes. We both bought an apartment of the largest type. Mine is bigger than hers. But category-wise, we are, well, in the same category.
Socially, we’re in different universes. She has two children—boys, about 12 and 15 years old. Good-for-nothing all the way. I think I have two—a son and a daughter—but even a mother can’t be certain about these things; not regardless of circumstance. They’ve left the house. They’ve finished school. They went to college. They have their own lives now.
My friend is divorced. I’m a widow. I’m in love with my husband—as much as I was ten years ago, when he died. We would never have divorced. Given time, we would always have owed that to ourselves.
I found out that my friend has a penchant for spiritualism. One day, when we happened to exit our apartments at the same moment, she told me she was on her way to a necromancer class. She said it with an undertone of self-derision. Even though our acquaintance only goes back a few months, and our interaction has been intermittent, her instinct told her I have no sympathy for that kind of nonsense.
Sharing this information with me was unsolicited. But I was glad she had. During our brief encounters, and in online meetings of the Owners’ Association, my friend struck me as a strong and independent character, a bold and decisive person, a leader. I had grown to respect her. So I reacted forgivingly, saying something vague about adventure and inquisitiveness, and that I hoped she’d enjoy class.
My neighbour-friend is overweight. I’m not. I never was. I’m a 4. I’ve never been more than a 4. I’ve been less than a 4— a 2, even a 0 in my twenties. I’m still enjoying weeks when I’m a 2. My waist-down wardrobe has separate 4 and 2 sections.
The next time we met, she said she had menstrual problems. This was in a convenience store—subprime, not the kind where one would typically run into someone of my social class. I happened to pass by it. It was warm. I thought a bottle of white wine would be nice to enjoy in the evening sun on my balcony. So I went in.
I saw my friend browsing the vegetable section. It’s near the entrance. For a moment, I considered pretending I hadn’t seen her. But, aware she must have noticed me (I stand out in a crowd), I thought that was risky. I didn’t know where the wine section was, and in searching for it, we might suddenly find ourselves walking down the same aisle from opposite sides. So, with the courage I could muster (socially, I’m a failure), I stepped up to her and asked if she knew where I’d find the wine.
Wine, to me, is about the concept, not the actual product. In fact, I hate the taste of wine, and the alcohol in just half a glass knocks me flat out. I told her this. I said I don’t have a talent for addictions. I think I felt I should explain my entering a lower-tier convenience store just to buy a bottle of wine.
My friend smokes (but only outside the house, and she keeps the stubs to throw them in a bin). She said, “Oh yes, you do—but you don’t know it.” Then she told me that lately, when having her period, she was bleeding hard and long. Her ob-gyn had suggested she have an IUS inserted to boost progesterone levels. But she’d done her internet homework and concluded that her estrogen levels must be too high.
This made sense, she said, because of late—due to stress (divorce, children, moving)—she’d been drinking too much. As her research bore out, this affected the liver’s ability to break down estrogen. “These doctors,” she scoffed, “they’d rather shoot a woman full of hormones than do some decent research and analysis.”
“Yes,” I concurred. “They think a woman is a machine, and hormones are its levers.” One has to be very careful with hormones, especially at our age, I added.
I wasn’t serious about this. I’m very regular. I never have any trouble in this particular area—or in any other, where physical health is concerned. I’m without age.
She said she was retaining fluid. I didn’t think it explained her being overweight, but, knowing that’s exactly what she wanted to explain away, I said, “Yes, it’s a thing. It can be a thing.” I didn’t want to refer to menopause either. She might find that offensive.
A package was delivered to me. A small cardboard box, weightless. It was for my neighbour-friend. She hadn’t answered the doorbell. I accepted it on her behalf.
She called at my door a couple of hours later. I gave her the box, which I’d dropped in a chair without giving it another thought. I said there could hardly be anything in it.
“Panties,” she said. “I can only get them online in my size.”
“I order vibrators online,” I said, unsure why I volunteered that information. The exquisite Lelo Ina Wave—the third vibrator I’d purchased online over the past few weeks—had been delivered the other day.
Did I expect her to share similarly intimate information? Did I feel that panties ordered online are a very intimate thing already—perhaps not less intimate than a vibrator—and that I should respond in kind?
My friend stared at me.
“Will you be at the Owners Meeting tomorrow night? My candidacy for chairperson is on the agenda.”
*You have my vote”, I said.
She gave the box a little wave. “Thank you.”
Hard Nosed Women 