LunchShe sat at the table with three friends from college and looked over the menu for the second cheapest item. If she ordered the cheapest thing, then everyone would know why she was ordering it. And she really couldn't afford to spend anything on lunch at a place like this. But she couldn't let them know that either. They had never been friends although that's what they called themselves. She wasn't ready to admit it -- she didn't care about them. No one was ready to admit that. So they spent a day each month at lunch pretending, just so each of them could act like they weren't alone. Her skirt was too tight and she felt a heavy fat roll bunch up over her belt. It disgusted her, made her feel dirty, and she squeezed her water glass tightly but kept a smile on her face. She would have bitten her lip but she didn't want to ruin her three-dollar lipstick. Then the monthly interrogation started. "So Linda . . . What have you been doing with yourself? I haven't seen hide nor hair of you around the club. You know you just seemed to have disappeared." The last word was emphasized. She mumbled something back. The conversation took a clumsy pause. Her stomach turned and her mind drifted to what she wanted to say. "Kiss off, you scratchety old bitch! I'm so damn sick of you and your pompous ass of a friend and this bullcrap Sunday lunch you schedule once a month to make me feel like a piece of dirt." But rather than saying it, she held on to her glass of water. Next came a slew of comments about her blouse. It was the same blouse she had worn last month. It was the only nice one she had. She didn't go to church and that was fortunate because she only had enough wardrobe for one engagement a month. Unless she started hanging out in different circles, her social schedule had to be very limited. And the town wasn't that big. She kept wondering why she couldn't just marry someone rich, admitting on some level she'd be willing to spread her legs a few times a month just to get the better of her friends. Her husband wouldn't have to be goodlooking, charming, or even fun; she was willing to settle for a low sexdrive and big bank account. Since college, she had imagined and fantasized about telling them off. Every lunch, every time they saw each other, she constructed scenarios where it would become possible; she imagined winning the lottery, marrying wealth, inventing something, or becoming famous. But she never imagined just doing it. Maybe it was the irritating roll of fat over her pants or the comment about the blouse, but something was pushing her mind into a place that it had never gone. Maybe it was PMS. The chitter-chatter continued, focusing on weather, fashion, and romance. She didn't care as long as they stopped talking about her. She couldn't decide who she hated more: them or herself. But she was getting tired of having both around. And that was the biggest difference. She'd always hated them, always hated the lunches. But for the first time in her life she hated herself for allowing them to do this to her. For the first time she started taking responsibility for where she was spending her lunches once a month. And she started biting her lip as the comments came back to her. "So Linda, tell me . . . Do you have a new man in your life? It's been a while for you hasn't it?" And that was it. It was that simple. After eleven years of monthly lunches, she finally said something. Smiling coyly, with the calm and conviction of a death-row inmate, she just answered. "Well Cindy, I guess that I have been a little gun shy since I'd heard about how you got gonorrhea from just jumping back in the saddle. You know what I mean?" The rest of the lunch was awkwardly silent and quick. Next month, she politely declined their invitation. She was scared. She was lonely that day. And a part of her wanted to show up anyway. But she was also proud. And for the first time in a very, very long time, there was something inside of her that she liked.
John Grace, M.D.
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