CHAPTER TWO

The day after my mother’s funeral, I sat on a faux leather chair with threads coming loose at the seams. To my right, a Hollywood bro tried on black leather low-top Chucks and to my left sat a teenage girl in a tank top and booty shorts who made me feel every one of my fifty-one years. I, in contrast, wore elastic-waisted leggings and hoodie with the logo of my son’s new college.

I probably didn’t even need to try the shoes on since I was planning to buy the same Asics I’d been wearing for the last eight years. That was me: buy the same thing, do the same thing, eat the same thing, wear the same thing. I worked relentlessly to minimize surprises by sticking to formula in my clothes, my food, my schedule, anything I could routinize.

While waiting to be helped by a clerk, a low-pitch buzz emanated from my pocket.

I pulled out my phone and the screen revealed it was my best friend Scottie. Her real name is Michelle but her parents took one look at her outside the womb and started calling her a version of her middle name, Scott, which was her mother’s maiden name.

“Hi,” I answered, curious why she was calling since she’d already checked in twice since my mother’s funeral.

“Kegel,” Scottie said, and hung up.

I guffawed so loudly that the Hollywood bro narrowed his eyebrows at me.

Scottie and I regularly shared tips to forestall the increasingly rapid onslaught of aging. We were going to do everything in our power to keep our brains active (we had a 700-game Words with Friends streak), our bodies producing collagen, and our pelvic floors tight. That last one was easier for me since I’d only birthed one baby and she three, but more necessary for her because she was still having sex with her husband and I no longer had a husband. Sex with Brad was not imminent as far as I could tell.

My index finger punching the phone keyboard, I texted Scottie a check mark emoji. (Try hearing the word “kegel” and not doing it.)

“How can I help you?” The shoe store clerk had gray hair and a round face to match the shape of his belly, which hung over his black-belted navy slacks. He wore thick glasses, which he slid back up his nose with a middle finger, and too much cologne. He struck me as old, but then I realized he was probably my age, maybe even younger. Becoming parentless catapulted me closer to senior status.

“Hi,” I said, lifting my right foot and circling my ankle. “Can I try on the latest version of these? Size seven and a half?”

He gave a thumbs up and turned on his heel toward the back room.