Her . . . and Me

I have a friend who has twin boys. I have twin boys. Her twin boys are identical and athletic. Mine are not. But they play together anyway, because even though my twins are two years older than her twins, mine are immature.

My friend’s twin boys came over to play a few afternoons ago. They stomped around in the backyard and yelled while they played Nintendo and drank pop. After three hours, my friend finished work and arrived to pick them up.

She’d worked all day. So had I. Only she went to an office, while I took care of my kids. And hers.

I opened the door to my friend and her beauty and vitality slapped me in the face. She’s tall. I’m tall. Yet, at that moment, all I could see were the diffences between us.

She probably spends thirty minutes a day styling that long, high-lighted hair. She keeps it long because her husband likes it that way. I cut mine very short in a fit of post-partum psychosis, so now I’m at the awkward, growing-out stage of hair length. And I quit highlighting my locks and accepted that I–formerly naturally blond–have dull brown hair. I spend approximately three minutes every morning dealing with my mop because I’d rather sleep than blow-dry and primp.

My friend wears business suits because she goes to an office where she makes lot of money. I wear blue jeans with a hole in a knee or capri pants and a t-shirt most days. With socks and slippers because I can’t stand to feel crumbs on my feet and I hate it when I step into a wet spot. And believe me, there are mysterious wet spots when you have four kids.

My friend’s skin glows because she’s tan. I avoid the sun because my dad died from skin cancer. I’ve actually wondered if she has a secret tanning bed stashed away in her house because she is so unnaturally tan.

One Mother’s Day a few years back, my friend and I were in church, each with our own families. A woman was preaching the sermon that day, directing her comments to mothers. I sat in the front row. My friend sat on the other side, further back. The speaker, a grandmotherly woman who led the church choir, said, “[My friend] is a great example of a busy mother.” Then she looked straight at me and said, “No offense, Mel.” Then she continued to extol the virtues of my friend.

My friend and I used to be walking buddies. We walked every morning at 6:00 a.m. and chatted and laughed as we exercised and sweated. Then school started and I agreed to watch a daycare baby and I had to stop walking because there just wasn’t time. My friend found a new work-out buddy and trained for a marathon. She ran it in May. My new exercise bike substitutes for an exercise buddy. That’s where I keep my ironing pile. My friend takes her ironing pile to the dry-cleaner.

My friend has a maid. And a nanny. And a summer house. She takes her nanny with her when the family goes on vacation so she and her husband can have some time alone. My husband and I last vacationed in 1991.

So, I opened the door to my friend and she gathered her children and then drove off in her shiny, black Lexus. I have never felt more like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister in my life. Except maybe when I was in high school and spent my lunch hours in the library because I had no one to eat with in the cafeteria.

Off she drove to her house with its new $200,000 addition that has spectacular views of the Puget Sound and I closed my door to my built-in-1973 house with its sparkling popcorn ceilings and carpeted bathrooms.