Page 15

Lizzie

I should be hungover but I’m not. Probably because I went to bed at nine p.m . and got to sleep until the decadent hour of seven forty-five. And when I woke up, I merely opened my eyes, looked around at the beautiful room, saw that no one needed me, and closed them again.

There is no child at the foot of the bed gnawing on my toe and no husband to give thirteen directions to in order to get the day on track.

It’s pure fucking heaven. I consider room service, but remember I told Bex we could have breakfast in her room.

I text before I get in the shower, but there’s no answer.

After three unanswered texts the glow of our reunion from last night wears off and I remember that this is a woman who once begged me to fly to California to visit her and meet her new boyfriend and then disappeared.

The same woman who abruptly ended our friendship in a six-line email that was so cruel I can still quote from it today.

The memory stings more than I want it to.

Yes, back then I’d paid for the plane ticket to California with my own money and it wasn’t cheap.

Yes, I’d planned on staying with Bex and instead had to book a ridiculously expensive room at a grungy hotel by the airport for three days because everything in the city limits cost more than my monthly rent, and yes, I had been insanely excited to see my friend, to hug her and, if I am being totally honest, to make sure she was okay, because she had been fading from my life for a year and I wanted to know why.

But when I arrived…nothing. She didn’t answer my calls or texts.

I took the train and then a bus to the address I had for her and her boyfriend and banged on the door.

No answer even though I could hear that someone was in there.

I went to her work. They gave me some lame excuse about why she wasn’t there. And then, right before I was ready to do something like call the police (not that I actually thought they would do anything), I got that email from her.

Last night I’d been too giddy at our pleasant reunion to push her for an explanation, and she probably wants to kick the can of our backstory down the road until I write a glowing profile of her for the magazine so she can make even more money.

I keep thinking about that one line from Bex’s email all those years ago, the one that haunts me the most.

You’re obsessed with me and it has to stop.

That single line was the reason I never reached out after that.

I’m pissed off all over again before I’ve even had a proper cup of coffee.

Avoiding the big conversation, I decide, is classic Bex.

Nothing has changed despite the fact that she made me belly laugh like a toddler last night.

Despite the fact that being with her made me feel like me again in a way I didn’t even know I was hungry for.

I’m annoyed, but also somehow vindicated at the fact that nothing about her has really changed.

I dress in the most Instagrammable thing I packed, a maxi dress from a D?en photoshoot that I brought home on a whim even though nothing about it was practical or felt like me.

The material was slightly too sheer, the ruffly lace on the ends of the cap sleeves and neckline screamed Disney princess, and the calico print made me look like a sexy Mennonite.

That’s how Peter described it the one time I tried it on in our bedroom.

But when in Rome you do as the Romans do.

This dress will absolutely help me fit in here, and for some reason, I want to.

In the elevator I overhear one woman say, “I feel so great. This place is totally mom spring break. We know how to party and network and celebrate and be in bed by nine-thirty!”

“I got four new sponsors last night and I did the vodka ice luge.”

“It’s because that vodka is organic.”

I stifle a laugh. Both women turn and assess me. They take in my orange press bracelet and my badge and decide not to over-engage.

“Nice dress,” Ice Luger says, and resumes her own conversation.

I wind through the exhibit tables set up en route to the ballroom, stopping every so often to hear a spiel and get a free thing.

The hotel’s main ballroom is packed and the first morning session is in full force.

Servers roam the room bearing sponsored snacks on silver platters.

They’re all the kinds of foods that moms would buy in the supermarket and serve to their kids for breakfast. Eggo is apparently a major sponsor of this event, at least as far as I can tell from their signage all over the place.

But the child food is dressed up fancy for the adults.

Eggo mini-waffles are topped with artisanal local goat cheese and heirloom mini tomatoes.

Individual egg bites, the kind you pop in the microwave for a minute, have dollops of caviar on top.

Caviar! The level of extravagance, the money spent at this event, I haven’t seen anything like it in years, not since magazines actually shelled out for Fashion Week parties and book launches.

Those days are long gone, or at least I thought they were, but now the money is here and it’s flowing.

Four women are on the stage beneath an archway of fake greenery and a neon sign that screams I Am Woman .

Roar, I think as I snag a mini muffin from the buffet and sit at a table in the back of the room. There are notepads at every seat with Motherhood, Enhanced on the top. Enhance me, I think. Happy to let you do your best.

The moderator of this particular talk, an excessively tall woman in a pastel yellow sundress and blond extensions that nearly reach her butt, smiles wide as she addresses her panel. “Introduce yourself, ladies, and tell me about your zone of genius.”

A brunette with a massive pregnant belly and a calico dress quite similar to my own begins.

“I am a multi-hyphenate human who goes with the flows of the moon to show up authentically for myself and my community. I love speaking from the heart and showing up for my authentic self because that is the way to honor the purpose of my life.”

I have no idea what any of it means. It’s a word salad of self- help speak.

But I swipe through my phone to her Instagram account, @B0ssBabe$$$, and see that she has more than three million followers and is the CEO of a “digital brand agency” that was recently named one of Forbes’ fastest-growing companies in the United States.

“I am here to nerd out with each and every single one of you about what you are creating and how you can scale it,” she continues. “Just remember, as entrepreneurs—and all of you are entrepreneurs— you get to choose who you show up as every day!” The crowd screams in unison: “ BOSS BABE .”

It’s slightly culty, but I find myself clapping along, because who doesn’t want to show up as what you choose every day? When was the last time I did?

The panel continues in rapid-fire chatter about growth strategies and optimization, about leveraging artificial intelligence for balance and success, about utilizing a variety of platforms to engage your following.

Everyone around me is taking notes, and maybe I should be too.

There hasn’t been this much energy in magazines for a decade.

Part of me, a larger part than I would care to admit, envies all of them, these women who seem to be on the cutting edge of media while I’m riding a dinosaur into the asteroid.

When the panel ends, I head to the bathroom to text my family and apply more mascara. This is a very lash-forward crowd. I attempt to reach Bex again and the radio silence is too eerily familiar.

My prairie-chic dress, with its many tiers of fabric, is impossible to pee in. I scrunch it up around my waist as I do a quad-burning squat, careful not to let the back of the gown fall into the toilet. I haven’t used this particular maneuver with a garment since my wedding day.

When I return the stage is set for a single speaker. At first I worry that maybe I’ve gotten everything wrong…maybe Bex has her big talk now and not at noon. Maybe she wasn’t blowing me off at all but preparing for her keynote.

I find a table with a couple of empty chairs.

“Hi,” says a woman about my age wearing bright green overalls. “I’m Haisley.”

“Lizzie,” I say.

“You’re with the press?”

“I write for Modern Woman .”

“Are you interested in chickens?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you ever cover the chicken vertical?”

“ Modern Woman, ” I say again. “Not Modern Farmer .”

“Right. But, chickens?”

“I’m sorry. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I glance down at her badge and see that her Instagram handle is @HenfluenceGirl.

Is there truly an influencer for everything?

“I don’t cover chickens.” Words I never thought would come out of my mouth.

“Well, if you ever change your mind, I have stories.”

“I bet.” I turn and look the other way. “Who’s talking now?” I ask the petite brunette next to me. She’s furiously pecking away at her laptop with one hand while hoovering down a chocolate croissant with the other.

“Ughhhhh,” she groans. “Marsden Greer.”

“Who is that?”

“Right? Who even is he?” Sarcasm drips from her tone.

“Of course they would give a prime speaking spot to a guy like him and not a woman…even at a conference like this because they just want attention from a celebrity…Maybe they could give it to a woman who has been sweating away on a platform that truly improves the lives of working women, working moms. Nope. They’re going to give it to some dude who plays for a professional baseball team and just, like, announced that he created an app and wanted to talk to some moms about it. ”

“I’m Lizzie.” I introduce myself in response to her tirade.

“Katie.”