My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) Read Free Page B

or indoor?”
    â€œOutdoor,” I said.
    â€œHow nice. Evenings in the spring are usually very cool, but it’s been unusually warm this year, and it’s going to be warm tonight.” She took me by the hand and guided me toward a collection of dresses. I didn’t see anything black. I was seeing a lot of pastels. She pulled me along, and with her free hand gathered four dresses and then took me to the suspended sheet.
    She pulled it to one side and hung the dresses on what looked like a meat hook attached to the wall. “Here you are.”
    â€œThey, um, they have spaghetti straps.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œUnfortunately I’m on a low-carb diet.” Kitty didn’t get my joke. She was staring at my waistline.
    I looked at the dresses. Not one resembled anything I would ever dream of wearing. But as she pulled the sheet again in an attempt to create a place for some modesty, I realized that I was lying to myself. These were the kinds of dresses I’d dreamed of wearing. Many times. I fingered my way through each one, feeling the fabric, trying to imagine myself by Edward’s side. Trying to imagine the looks on the other professors’ faces.
    I pushed the sheet aside and stepped out, only to be greeted by two eager faces.
    â€œI’m sorry, these aren’t going to work.”
    â€œLeah, you didn’t even try them on!” Elisabeth said.
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œWe can see through the sheet.”
    I knew my instincts were right. It was time to leave. But each woman grabbed one of my arms and swung me back in front of the dressing sheet.
    â€œJust try them on,” Kitty said. “There’s no pressure. Just see how you feel about them.”
    â€œI can already tell you how I feel about them. They’re not really me.”
    â€œHow do you know,” asked Elisabeth, “without trying them on?”
    â€œIf you didn’t notice, I don’t have anything mint or pink in my closet.”
    Both of their faces indicated they might die of sorrow if I didn’t give this a shot, so with a sigh I went back in, yanked the translucent sheet behind me, and tried on mint #1.
    â€œKitty went to get you some shoes.”
    â€œOh. Good.” Mint #1 had some cleavage issues. Actually, I had some cleavage issues, but nevertheless, mint #1 went back on the hanger.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about your plays,” Elisabeth said, filling the silence.
    This was startling. It actually sent a chill down my spine. My friend who hadn’t been to the theater before she met me had been pondering my plays. Not that I was desperate for approval and attention, even from nonpeers, but I was curious.
    Oh, who are you kidding? You’re desperate.
    I believed Jodie had retreated, but since she hadn’t, I forcibly tucked her away and, in the most casual voice I could manage, considering the topic and the current outfit, mint #2, asked, “What do you mean?”
    â€œI haven’t been sleeping well lately,” Elisabeth began, which should’ve prompted a why not? but artists can be gracious and loving people until there’s an opportunity to talk about their work, and then they become the equivalent of a pushy first-time mother showing off a baby. That my baby, according to critics, happened to have acne and red splotches, was irrelevant. “And I was thinking of all of your three plays.”
    The Twilight T-Zone, my masterpiece that gave me the title “Most Promising Young Playwright” by Dora the Exploder herself, was about the cosmetics industry, and gave a nice message about our perception of beauty. It was an instant hit, and how I met Jillian Rose Thompson, otherwise known as J. R., the famed agent.
    My next effort, a political satire called Spint, wasn’t as well received. In fact, I believe it was called an “attempt.” I never thought “attempt” was very well defined. Attempt at