Beautiful People

Chapter 1

There was a time, I guess, when I thought I was normal.  I must have been about five.  It’s hard to really say because I don’t think in preschool or kindergarten I gave much thought to normalcy.  But by the age of twelve, I definitely knew I was abnormal and by seventeen, I was intelligent enough to know that subnormal was a much more accurate description. 

If you are expecting to hear that this was just a phase I grew out of it, you won’t.  The only difference now is that instead of being a subnormal teenager, I am subnormal and forty.  Hardly an improvement, I know, but I learned to accept it a long time ago and actually value the subtle service that people like me provide the community; we make other people look better.

I know this because I grew up in a family of non-subnormals so I experienced it first-hand.  They were all beautiful people and beautiful people are never subnormals.  This is not just my theory; there’s proof with statistics.  Beautiful people get more job offers than those who aren’t.  They also get more promotions.  Their chances of being offered a seat on a crowded bus are practically doubled.  They make more money, receive the popularity vote in all high school and college student elections, and are like 95 percent more likely to be waited on first in a boutique or clothing store.

My mom and my sister are part of the classic beautiful people group.  They are both tall with long slender legs and big boobs.  Their combined waist sizes are still probably smaller than my left thigh.  They are also both very smart, which simply gives them an edge over other beautiful people who aren’t so bright.  My only real complaint about either one is that while the word ‘diet’ is synonymous with my life, it does not even rate a memory cell in their brains.

My dad was not a classic.  When you first saw him, you would not put him into the beautiful people group, but after a five-minute conversation, you would. He had one of those personalities that made everyone love him.  He would do anything for anybody and was usually the center-of-attention everywhere he went.  He died when I was teenager, but he was wonderful.

Fortunately, my daughter is one of the beautiful people too.  She looks a lot like my sister, and for this, I am truly grateful, and so is my daughter, for that matter.  She tells me so constantly.  I am grateful because it means the odds are in her favor for having a pleasant, successful life.  Again, statistics back me up on this.

My sister and I are proof of this too.  My sister was born first.  My dad named her Vivien Leigh because Vivien Leigh was so beautiful and adored by thousands.  He figured it would be a good start because my sister was such a beautiful baby. 
By the time she was thirteen, she looked like a younger version of Cheryl Ladd, you know, one of Charlie’s Angels.  She went to college after graduating third in her high school class and majored in Chemistry because she was so smart.  She was not entirely pleased with this.  I imagine it’s because beautiful people should always be ranked first or something.  She got a job in Houston at the medical center without any problems and then married a doctor within a year.  They immediately bought a house in the ritzy older part of Houston, made three babies, all of whom are beautiful, of course.  My sister eventually enrolled all of them in private school, and she has spent the past fifteen years shopping at the Galleria and organizing school and charity functions.

I, on the other hand, was named Laura Clarice, after my great-grandmother on my dad’s side.  That is because she asked Dad to name me after her if I turned out to be a girl.  She was hoping for a boy, from what I understand, but a namesake she said would help ease the disappointment.  Even though she died three months before I was born, my dad kept his word.

The decision of our names was left totally to my dad because I guess my mom did not care.  It is not that she didn’t care about us; I think it is just that she doesn’t feel names are important.  It’s as if names only serve one purpose: to diminish the confusion in legal paperwork.  I imagine there are very few people whose name she actually knows.  She calls everyone dear, hun, darling or sweetie.  Nobody seems to mind. Beautiful people can get away with that sort of thing. 

This is the only trait I inherited from my mom.  I am bad with names too.  It works differently with me though.  I can’t pull off the “darling and sweetie” thing, so people do find it irritating.  I have watched way too much TV in my life so I associate everyone I meet with someone in a movie or sitcom.  In other words, if I meet someone name Janet who looks more like a Chrissy, she will forever be Chrissy to me.  It’s as if my brain is a computer and when it sees an error, it goes in auto-correct mode.  The way I see it, a Janet should not get mad that I call her Chrissy, she should instead appreciate that I am not calling her Jack or Mr. Furley.  They seldom see it that way though.

Anyway, I was named Laura, but after two months, my mom said she just could not get use to it.  She said the wrong image would come into her head when someone asked what my name was and that made her pause.  Eventually, they started calling me Lulu.  She said it fit better because I had such fat cheeks.  By the time I had started school, it had been shorten to Lou because it was easier to say, and that name did stick.

Like my sister, I graduated and went to college too.  I was not at the top of my class, which came to no surprise to my family.  I majored in art history.  I expected my family to have a fit since everyone else obtained some kind of degree in science.  Mom just said it would be hard to make a living unless I wanted to teach.  To my misfortune, she was right.

I did get a job, not a very good one, at the museum.  It was fun even if the pay was lousy.  When I was twenty-five, I had to quit to get a real job at the telephone company because I was pregnant.  I did eventually get married - on my 35th birthday.  I was divorced before my 36th.

The different course our lives took should have been anticipated.  From a young age, it was firmly established that I was not one of the beautiful people, yet they were.  When we would run into people or relatives we hadn’t seen in awhile, they would look at my mom and my sister and comment on how beautiful or lovely they were.  To me, they would just say something like “Isn’t she sweet?  She’s just like her father.”  When you are 13, it is not flattering to be told you look like a middle-aged balding man with a slight potbelly and toothpick thin legs.  Somehow, this look worked for my dad, but not for me.

Because of all this, I think that the biggest difference between beautiful people and subnormals is that beautiful people actually have lives that are worth living where as subnormals live so others can have a better life.  No point in fretting over it, it is better to just accept it and go with it. 

For the last hour, I have thought a lot about this because if ever there was a time that I wanted to be not subnormal, it was now.  I found out that my old boyfriend Jason is coming into town.  When I say old, I mean it has been over twenty years since I have seen him so neither one of us can be considered young.

Therefore, I am freaking out!  Which is probably one of the few normal things I have ever done in my life because most people would be rather freaked about it, wouldn’t they?  I mean think about it - I was still jailbait with a butt positioned where it should be when I saw him last.  So, as I said, I am freaked.  Franticly panicking because I know that I have waited more than twenty years for this moment to come, and now that it has, my body is just not ready for it.

I have no excuse.  I’ve envisioned this meeting a hundred times over the years so I should be prepared.  There have been various scenarios covering when, where and how we would meet.  What has never varied is what happens at these meetings.  It brings me great joy each time I think about it.  It goes something like this.
 
An attempt to glance in my direction captures his eyes, locking them in place.  Mesmerized by my beauty, he gives in willingly, making no effort to fight the compelling attraction.  Unshaken, I toss my hair and smile slightly.  He is stunned by my sophistication, my sensuality.  Immersed in the rapture that only true love can provoke, he rushes to my side, only to be overwhelmed by the insurmountable passion and lust for my irresistibly hot, bodacious body.  He pleads; he grovels for my forgiveness and another chance.  No other woman is as wonderful, he claims.  No one can compare.  I have been in every waking thought and in every dream.  Only I can fulfill his needs.  Only I can make his life whole.  He is worthless without me.

It really is a lovely fantasy. I know it is just a fantasy because never, not once, in all the times I have played it out in my mind, did reality intrude by bringing this body into the picture.  Since I am likely to meet him very soon, I will have to rethink the whole thing.  The likelihood of satisfaction is slim.

I decided to stop thinking about it for a while.  I still had about two hours left on the road before I would get home and there were more pressing matters at hand, such as how my weekend of quiet bliss and recuperation has been shattered.  With both my mom and daughter in the house, which I had not expected, and with the Jason thing to stress over, the weekend did not look too promising. 

I found all this out because I thought I would do the responsible thing and call home to check for messages.  After all, I have been out of town for work for over a week and that was the least I could do, right?  I also figured that I could return any phone calls while I was driving home thus killing two birds with one stone.  That way, when I got home, I could just immediately start enjoying an early start to the weekend.  It wasn’t even noon yet and it was Friday.  In just over two hours I would be home from my trip to Austin and could relax.

That was where I made my mistake.  When I called the house, I expected to hear numerous rings before the answer machine picked up.  I was, understandably, surprised when my daughter answered since she was not even supposed to be there
.
“Oh my God, Lizzie, it’s you!”  I said, not hiding my astonishment.

“Uh, yeah, Mom.  Who else do you expect to answer the phone when you call home?  The President?”  At fourteen, nearly everything that came out of my daughter’s mouth was drenched in sarcasm.

“I didn’t expect – that’s the point!  What are you doing?”

“I’m answering the phone, Mom.  Didn’t we just cover that?”

“Stop being difficult, Lizzie.  I am well aware you answered the phone.  I mean, why?

“Because it rang,” she said.

“Very funny.  That’s not what I meant and you know it.”  If she was going to be obtuse, I would have to spell it out.  I took a breath and then very loudly and very slowly said each word, just to show I could be annoying too.  “WHY-ARE-YOU-EVEN-AT-HOME-TO-BE-ABLE-TO-ANSWER-THE-PHONE. YOU-ARE-SUPPOSED-TO-BE-AT-YOUR-AUNT-VIV’S!”

“Oh!” was all she said, as if she didn’t have a clue to begin with.  After a moment she added, “Grandma picked me up.”

“Why?”

“She wanted to, I guess.”

She was lucky I was stuck in a car miles from home.  Every conversation with my daughter is a tug of war.  She will make a great politician some day.  She’s very evasive and pays very little attention to anything that does not directly affect her.  I always feel like one of those reporters that are firing question after question at the guy behind the podium whose answers sound great but never actually answers the questions asked.  It’s a real art form so I give her credit for the ability, but it is still annoying.  Other people give me compliments on my well-behaved, polite daughter, but it is a side of her I have never seen.  I was losing patience so I counted to three before I responded.

“Lizzie, I should not have to play twenty questions just to find out why it is you are at home when I have been out of town for 8 days and you are supposed to be at Vivien’s.  Now, why did Grandma pick you up and why are you at home?  What is going on?”

“God, Mom.  Chill!  Nothing’s GOING ON!  Grandma picked me up is all.  Her condo is being re-sided or something and she don’t like the noise, so she thought she would just stay here so she picked me up from Aunt Viv’s.”

“Isn’t that just peachy?”  I could use sarcasm too.  “How long is she staying?”

“I don’t know.  You want to ask her?”

“No, I don’t want to ask her.  I’m talking to you.  Didn’t she give you any idea?”

“I don’t know.  Two or three days, maybe.  I was just glad to get home”

“What?  Why would you want to go home?  You love it at Viv’s.”

“Not this time.  Tim was weird.  They were all weird.”

I chose to ignore this comment for the moment.  Tim is my brother-in-law and I’ve always thought he was somewhat weird, so I let it go.  I figured she was just now noticing.

“Look, we’ll discuss this later.  Have you checked the messages?  Is there anything I need to know?”

“No, not really.  The new neighbor called. Something about the cable company.  And Tammy called about some Jason guy.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Mom.  Jason Wider or something like that.  I didn’t pay attention.  It’s not like the message was for me.  He’s in town or something!”

“Oh crap!”  I know that was not the correct response to give my daughter but I was flabbergasted.  “Look, hang up.  I’ll call back and listen to the messages myself.  Don’t answer.  Oh, and I’ll be home in a couple of hours so let Grandma know.  Remember, don’t answer.”

I hung up and dialed again.  I was already going into panic mode.  I had to know about Jason.  After 2 rings, I heard my mom’s voice.  “Hi, Mom, you weren’t supposed to answer.”

“What do you mean I’m not supposed to answer?”

“I was just calling to check the messages.  Didn’t Lizzie tell you?”

“No, she hasn’t told me anything.  Why do you need to check messages?  We’re here.” 

If you haven’t caught on, this is where my daughter gets her conversational ability.  She inherited it from my mom. I was out of patience now and really just wanted to hear about Jason.  I concentrated on the direct approach.

“Lizzie listened to the messages, Mom, but she didn’t remember them.  So it will be easier if I just listen to them myself.  Don’t worry about it.  I will just call back.  Don’t pick up.  I’ll talk to you in a couple of hours.”

I hung up before she could argue it.  I dialed again.  She answered after the first ring.  I should have known.

“Mom, you weren’t supposed to answer.  Let it ring until the machine picks up.”

“Why do I need a machine to answer when I am standing right next to the phone?”

“Oh, Good God!”  I was losing it now.  “I want to listen to my messages!”

“Will you just calm down.  I will listen to the messages.  If there is anything you need to know, I will call you.  Now, stop worrying.”  This time, she hung up on me.

I gave up, and called Tammy directly.  That’s how I finally got the news.  Jason Weidner is coming into town for his 25th high school reunion.  He’s also divorced which just adds to my excitement but also my nervousness.  In just a few weeks, he would be here.  Moreover, in just a few weeks, I have to become a whole new person.