There were a dozen or so of us in the park, picnicking under a glorious Danish sun. All female, varying ages, enjoying an azure sky; the kind of blue you only see in Copenhagen and only when you are very, very lucky. The kind of Danish summer sky you dream about. Prosecco was poured, toasts were made, sweets were nibbled, savouries savored.
Yesterday, we were ladies who lunch.
Naturally, we immediately stripped down to our filmy, flimsy undergarments and had a pillow fight. We fell about, squealing and giggling like naughty school girls, bare flesh glistening in the summer sun, downy feathers raining down upon us, until we fell, breathless, into a big girly pile and napped, head to belly, in the warm, dappled light.
Of course we didn’t. But I swear to God that’s what every heterosexual male thinks when he hears “I went out for lunch with the girls”. Probably even the homosexual ones too. Maybe in an icky way, I don’t know. But mention a gathering of more than three females and it’s like Porky’s starts to play on a constant loop through the collective male subconscious.
But don’t worry, guys! We didn’t really have a pillow fight. We were too busy popping open champagne bottles and gorging on bon-bons. And then we took turns complaining about our husbands. You know, how they didn’t measure up. You know, measure up. Or alternatively, how they did. We regaled each other with tales of size and width and breadth until we ourselves were out of breath.
Of course we didn’t. We’re not porn stars sitting around on a lunch break talking about job hazards (and there’s a post idea for someone, porn stars and OSHA regulations). In all my years in all my conversations with all my female friends, not one of them has ever mentioned the size of her partner’s equipment. Rest assured guys, it just doesn’t come up. Yes, yes, the pun was intended.
But don’t worry, guys! We didn’t really sit around talking about how size matters. We were too busy talking about spending your money. Prada shoes and Hermes bags and Chanel suits, Oh My! “I’ll show him”, Annie said. “I’ll go out and spend extra $50 on the food shopping!” “You wait and see Henry’s face when I tell him I’m going to double those insurance premiums”, said May. Marjory piped in, “I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him how much it cost to fill the gas tank last week!”. And then we all cackled with glee, adding some eye of newt to our Mimosas.
Of course we didn’t. We’re not really that petty. Speaking of petty…all those times you didn’t empty the dishwasher or take out the trash or help the kids brush their teeth or remember to send your mother a birthday card or fold the Chrysler Building size pile of laundry that was blocking your view of the television? That’s what we really talked about.
Of course we didn’t.
Well maybe the laundry.
It’s a bizarre mental image I’m left with, of scantily clad pillow fighting females emasculating their husbands while talking trash and furiously ordering the latest Chanel bag on their iPhone simultaneously stuffing bon-bons into their mouths, (confession: I’m not even sure what a bon-bon actually is). In fact, my visual skills are so lacking I’m not even sure I can get past the pillow fight bit.
So guys, I’ll let you all in on a secret. As we sat , spread about on picnic blankets and nibbling on raspberries and salad, we cooed over babies. We marveled over the glorious weather, a rarity in Denmark. We feted the birthday girl, and as she was entering a new decade, we regaled her with tales of the wonder of being a woman of a certain age. The talk turned, as it often does with a group of women, to those distinctly female subjects of pregnancy, childbirth and nursing. Birth stories and dilation and mastitis and epidurals. Episiotomies and cracked nipples, IVF, IUI, whoops babies who forever changed lives. Almost born in the car stories (mine), week-long labors (someone else’s).
The only pillows we talked about were nursing ones. Size was mentioned only in relation to children we birthed. The closest we got to porn was talking about the gravity defying ginormity of our former nursing breasts. So guys, don’t worry about us ladies that lunch. We’re trading stories of stitches and pitocin, birth weights and birth control, sleepless nights and temper tantrums, and if you’re a woman of a certain age, how as much as you miss the exhale of a infant’s breath upon your lashes, how glad you are those days are behind you. We’re not talking about you. Or not a lot anyway.
Yesterday there was champagne, it was a birthday after all, but I promise you, we didn’t eat any bonbons.
Of course we didn’t.
Happy Birthday EHS.