Sunday, December 2, 2007

A Day in the Diary of Juliet Ang.

Juliet Ang. 35. Modern, Single, Forever-Young.

Dear Diary,

I should stop starting with ‘dear diary’ if only because it makes me sound like a flighty 14 year old schoolgirl confiding in her secret best friend all the dark, deep secrets and private thoughts that she can’t bear to reveal, not even to her best friend in life. Things that carry little import but have the potential to greatly mortify, like how you think your best friend’s boyfriend is so hot and how Tracia thinks she’s God’s gift to men but has a face like an over-ripe squash. But old habits die hard and at 35, remaining 14 in some aspects isn’t too bad after all. I feel the wrinkles coming. Shudder.

After the weekly Yoga session at X gym (which was incredibly invigorating as usual), I met Megan and Catherine for lunch at Y. The set lunches as usual were simply divine. It’s been almost 2 months since we last met up (jetting about for work has been exhausting) but I daresay they’ve changed slightly. Meg freshly botoxed, the crow feet conspicuously absent and her glacial face looking more plastic than ever. SKII she declared authoritatively when Cat and I complimented her on her youthful complexion. To which we exchanged a knowing glance, silly woman went overboard as usual, as Meg smiled, a faint upturn of the lips on an otherwise expressionless face. She’d make a fantastic mannequin.

Cat, dear old Cat, still jolly and a little boisterous but certainly looking a little more rotund. A little binge eating after the end of that disastrous relationship with Robert no doubt. She doesn’t like to talk about it but the occasional tremor in her voice when she involuntarily recalls some memory with him, her sentence dying off in mid air are signs enough. Not that it can be helped, I probably gained 3 kg after Jack left. Meeting the girls is always fun though it can take on a competitive air, each proffering some accomplishment as testament to the successful modern woman image.

Three single successful women, not always successful with men, who’ve been friends since 14, often feel the need for a yardstick to measure up with. If only to ascertain that we’ve not fallen behind. We’re friends and yet we compete, fall behind and we’ll console the poor woman, extend genuine offers of help yet be secretly smug that we, for now, are ahead in this never-ending race. So it was with great aplomb that Meg told us she had acquired, not one, not two but THREE Manolo Blahnik shoes which cost no less than $1200 apiece. His shoes are gorgeous, sleek works of art with killer heels that defy gravity, for which the wearer pays a painful price.

And while we congratulated her on her pricey acquisitions, we did warn her about the price she’d need to pay, after all at 35, we’re hardly the stiletto heeled Xenas of the boardroom anymore. Shoes with heels shorter than my paring knife are now the preferred battle gear for office, though as Meg noted, a night out with Manolo Blahnik just feels empowering and ritzy. “You become a different woman in those heels.” Something Cat and I can attest to.

Cat revealed that she had been promoted again, seems like her ability to deliver prompt results and whip recalcitrant subordinates into shape paid off again. “It just means I’ve sold more of my life to the job.” She moaned. But we could tell that she was secretly pleased. Plus it would help her in getting over that useless two-timing sod. Not to be outdone, I let on that I’d been seeing someone for almost 6 weeks now and had just gotten together.

Upon which they flooded me with questions. Who was he? How old was he? How did we meet? What’s he working as? How far have we gone? Prudish as it may sound, I was a little pleased with the attention. Alright, more than a little. After all, when you’re a successful, single woman at 35 and money is no longer an issue, companionship and the thought of having another person waiting for you at the end of the day suddenly seem a lot more important than they did 10 years back, when Power to Me and career progression were the driving forces.

So I answered, enough to titillate but not too much to be shamelessly flaunting, the kind that leaves others resentful and bitter. I’d met Keith at a housewarming party. He’s 32, impishly cute yet mature. Working as an assistant Financial controller in Z. Dated for a month and just got together recently. He’s incredibly romantic. How far, how far? They prodded.

The usual. We’ve already slept together once. Squeals. How was he? Oh not incredibly skilled but a warm and sensitive lover. And attentive, yes, incredibly attentive. Then at this point I had to demur and politely evade further probing from a very enthusiastic Meg as I noticed Cat was starting to look a little morose, eyes hazing over, the first telltale warning signs of doom and gloom.

We finished our tiramisu mostly in thoughtful silence. The rest of the afternoon was spent indulging in our favourite activity, shopping, though I had to plead fatigue after a light dinner of salad and soup at Q. Keith wants to bring me out for drinks at City Space tonight and I need to change out and dump the bags even if he is picking me up. Though I didn’t tell them that obviously, no point making Cat more miserable.

Alright, time for a quick nap before I freshen up and decide what to wear. That Givenchy gown or the JPG LBD. Decisions decisions. Oh and I’m supposed to arrange tea with Aaron, haven’t seen that man for almost a year. Probably been getting a lot of bum fun in his own words. But he’s such a dear and so hilariously risqué. Better catch that nap now.


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