Waiting to Exhale Read Free

pick up the phone one day and tell her I want her to meet my futiire husband. Maybe then she'll give me a break.
    I went into the bathroom and plugged in the curling iron, and without even giving it a second thought, I found myself splashing on puddles of Joy. After I blow-dried my hair, I turned the fan on because it was getting too hot. My cat, Yasmine, followed me into the bedroom and sat down next to me on the bed. I put my panty hose on, then slipped into my new purple suede pumps so I could break them in. I stood up and looked down at my stomach. It was so bloated it looked like I was about three months pregnant. Yasmine looked at me like she agreed. I don't know how I could forget that my period was due in four days, which should explain why I'd been such a bitch at work and why I spent half of last night crying for absolutely no reason I could think of. This PMS shit is definitely for real, and it's getting worse every year. I wish I knew what to do about it. I took the panty hose off and rummaged through my top dresser drawer until I found some with a control top. They didn't help all that much, which means I'm going to have to hold my stomach in when I walk, because I'm wearing this dress tonight and that's all there is to it. And I lied to Mama. The only thing that's true about this dress is that it's tight. It's also teal-blue suede, and since I don't have any cleavage, my ass is about the only thing that makes a statement in it.
    This hair is tired, but I was doing the best I could with the curling iron. I took another sip of my wine, hoping it would help me get in some kind of festive mood, and turned on the little radio sitting on the back of the toilet. I was singing "How Will I Know" right along with Whitney Houston while I put on my makeup. I took my time because I didn't want to look like I was wearing any, except for the lipstick. I love lipstick but wear only three colors: red-red and fuchsia, and orange in the summer. After I blotted my lips, I got a bottle of red nail polish out of the medicine cabinet to add a new coat to the two that had already dulled since yesterday. Then I put a pair of these drop-dead crystal earrings on and looked at myself in the mirror. I thought I looked pretty good, but my feet were already killing me. Hopefully, in another hour or two these shoes'll be looser. I went into the living room and turned on the TV. Somebody was asking all these celebrities about their New Year resolutions. As if anybody cared.
    I shook the bottle of polish and started with my thumb. Then, as corny as I know it is, I actually found myself thinking about a few resolutions of my own. On the top of my list is finding a husband. I promise myself that in 1990 I will not spend another birthday by myself, another Fourth of July by myself, another Thanksgiving by myself, and definitely not another Valentine's Day, Christmas, or New Year's by myself.
    I also need to quit smoking. But not tonight. I have to be realistic about this shit. But before my thirty-seventh birthday, which is ten whole months away, I will. I just pray I don't get fat. So far I've been pretty lucky. I look and feel almost as tight as I did when I was thirty, and the most exercise I get is walking to my car. That's pitiful, when I think about it. I know I'm at that age when my body is going to start corroding if I don't do something to slow down the process. I remember the day I turned thirty. I was getting out of the shower and I stood in front of the mirror and stared at myself for a long time. I examined every inch of my body and appreciated the fact that I finally looked like a grown woman. I also assumed that this was how I was going to look- for the rest of my life. The way I saw it, I was never going to age; I'd just look up one day and be old. And Lord only knows what'd happen to my body if I were to have a baby about now. It looks like somebody stenciled beige skid marks all over Sheila's breasts, stomach, and hips. I can't