It could have been a scene out of Steel Magnolias.
My finger nails were wrapped in acetone-soaked cotton balls, one foot splashed in a tub of soapy water, the other foot was being assaulted by a file, and I was surrounded by a team of women in white lab coats all asking the same questions: What’s his name? How’d ya meet him? What does he do? Where are you going? Is he good enough for you?
Marbella, Linda, Suzan, and Margaritte — these are the women that keep my hair neat, my nails manicured, and my bikini-line in check. They’re also my adopted extended family. With relationships forged in my pre-teen years, they’ve followed me as I passed from one phase of young adulthood into the next. We’ve traded life stories, swapped allergy remedies, rejoiced in each other’s successes, and lamented one another’s losses.
So, if there’s one group that has a right to weigh in on my love life, it’s these women. Not only have they all called dibs on wedding-day preparations, they’ve reserved the right to inspect all potential suitors.
I sat there like a deer in the headlights, trying to keep my composure while Marbella swiped on a second coat of “fruit sangria” as they all grilled me about the guy who sent sweet text messages, made me laugh, and wanted another date. I knew if I started to talk, I’d start to gush, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the great game of dating, it’s to never to put a cart before the horse.
“Just tell us! Do you like him?!?!?”
My lips were sealed, but my cheeks, which had just changed to match my neon-pink toenails, provided answer enough.