ABCs of Alluring Women | by Adrienne Albregts

 

Lydia was not my first choice friend. She certainly did not fit into my theory, which was this: When you move away from your family, your blood, for whatever reason – college, job opportunity, relationship, etc. –  you tend to surround yourself with people solely because you want to. Not because you have to. I refer to those friends, the ones with whom I don't share D.N.A., as Chosen Family. Lydia was not chosen.

See, a few years ago it was just me, Sasha, and Gina in our petite-yet-mighty womentourage. The three amigas, totally inseparable. I believed our trinity was impermeable; that's why I was so caught off guard when Gina said: “Girls, we need a fourth.”

“A fourth what? Cocktail?” Sasha assumed. To her defense, we were at a bar.

“No, a fourth friend,” Gina clarified.

“Why? What’s wrong with us?” I interjected, a bit confused by the proposition. I thought our little group had it all: Gina, a sassy Italian lawyer known for making grown men cry in public; Sasha, a graphic designer who fully earned her nickname, Shot Girl; and me, Melody, the level-headed, yet surprisingly unpredictable family and relationship psychologist.

 “Haven’t you noticed how all the sidewalks downtown are too narrow for the three of us to walk side-by-side? Wouldn’t it be nice to walk two-by-two?” Gina flipped her sleek jet black hair off her defined shoulders.

 “We don’t live on an arc, Noah,” I spat back.

 “Look, it’s just a suggestion. I think we might learn something from a fourth, don’t you? I mean, we’ve all known each other for so long, it would be nice to … freshen up the group. All I'm asking is for you to think about it.”

“Oh! Can we get a black girl?” Sasha asked. I wondered why she wasn't  insulted like I was – probably because her spirit was a bit more freed than mine....

“Black, white, brown, yellow? I don't see why not!”

 Gina had a point: We knew everything about one another, down to the minutest of details. We were aware of each others insecurities, childhood fears, and even bodily functions. Quite frankly, on a co-dependency scale of one to ten – one being “Miss Independent” by Kelly Clarkson (before the chorus kicks in, obviously), and ten being “I Can't Live if Living is Without You” ala Mariah Carey – our little group fell at about a nine point five.

 After a thorough evaluation of our possibly detrimental reliance on one another and the downtown sidewalks, I determined that it would be healthy to add a new perspective.

 “So, how do you propose we find this fourth female?” I asked, interest begrudgingly piqued.

 “Can we post an ad on Craigslist, maybe?” Sasha suggested.

“Well, yeah – you can post anything on Craigslist,” Gina replied.

 Our ad went something like this:

  We are three single girls in our late twenties looking to add a fourth fabulous and fierce    female  to our womentourage. All serious inquiries will be considered. If interested in    meeting for cocktails to see how we all get along, please reply to this posting.  

 

 Of course, we got a handful of crazies who responded. The first girl we met was into naked yoga on the weekends and kept analyzing the “color of our inner characters.” Mine was apparently green. The next girl tried to sell us health insurance policies. I bought a six-month dental plan and we never heard from her again. We did meet a black girl – Sasha was thrilled – but said black girl was actually a boy.

 Then we met Evangeline. It was kind of like love at first sight. She was the perfect blend of urban hippy and Austin upper class – a genuine, street smart debutante. And the best part: She was connected. Evangeline was the promotions manager for Front Porch Gypsies, the hottest new folk-rock band in town. She had ties at Rolling Stone. Her uncanny ability to network came with all the benefits, which we were willing to reap. For two months straight, Gina, Sasha, and I were highly entertained, getting into all the V.I.P. lounges in Austin; backstage passes were of no issue, and make-out sessions with lead guitarists came much too easily. Oh, and did I mention that Evangeline introduced us to      Al-cocoa-hol Fridays? We consumed alcohol and chocolate – nothing else – every Friday. Genius.

 “Guys, I’ve started seeing someone,” Evangeline told us one day. She seemed nervous to tell us, like we’d be upset she’d found someone other than us to hang out with. We weren’t upset, though; we were happy for her. Swear. But then....

 “Oh, tell us all about him!” we cooed in unison.

“Well,” she took a deep breath, “he’s perfect.  I’ve known him for a really long time, actually.”

“That’s cool. So you were friends first? That tends to work out very well, ya know,” I said, flexing my psychoanalytical skills. “How long have you known him?”

“Pretty much my entire life,” she replied.

“Family friend?”

“You could say that,” she winced. It was obvious that she did not want to elaborate, but keeping secrets was not an option in our tight little circle. So we pried until she broke.

“He’s my cousin, all right?” she blurted.

After about a minute of not knowing what the hell to say, Gina finally said, “Like your third cousin twice removed, right?” Her voice elevated at least an entire octave when she said right.

“No,” Evangaline replied with her head hung down. “His dad is my mom’s brother.”

 * * *

After we not-so-subtly fazed Evangaline out of our lives, we found ourselves back at square one. Over coffee in SoCo one morning, Sasha suggested Lydia who, ironically, was my cousin.

“Lydia? Really?” I questioned.

“Isn’t she a teacher?” Gina asked.

“Yeah, she is. And she has nothing in common with us….”

“Isn’t that the point?” Sasha said.

“I suppose … we could learn a lot from her, actually. She’s been all over the world, was in the Peace Corps and all. She barely drinks … but that could work to our advantage when we need a sober driver, huh? What happens if we don’t mesh with her and we have to phase her out, too?” I wondered out loud. Gina and Sasha answered me with impervious shrugs.

 We eventually agreed on Lydia. It became clear why in one single night at the Mean-Eyed Cat, our favorite Girls' Night destination. Although we frequented bars at least three times a week, this particular outing at the Mean-Eyed was absolutely necessary: An Emergency Girls Night, called on account of my fresh breakup with Joey.

Lydia was the first to arrive, just like always. I loved that about her – so reliable. I remember her hair color was different than from the last time I saw her, which couldn't have been more than two days prior. This time her locks were auburn. Lydia was one of those fortunate girls who could pull off any shade or style. With her complexion, she could get away with anything; I secretly loathed her for that, often cursing our shared gene pool for it's cruel inconsistencies. My pale skin hardly allowed low-lights, for Christ's sake.

“Omigod, Melody! I can't believe you and Joey broke up. I’m just shocked!”

“C’est la vie.” I replied as I accepted Lydia's hug. “He got his dream job in New York. What's a girl to do?”

 “For starters, drink heavily with your girlfriends. Let’s get a table.”

 We strolled over to a quiet spot near the unoccupied pool table just as Sasha and Gina walked through the entryway. The logo on Sasha's vintage Styx t-shirt was skewed and stretched across her chest – it could have fit a toddler. And Gina was sporting her signature all-black attire in the form of a miniskirt paired with a dangerously low v-neck tank top. They both gave me sympathetic embraces, the first step in the we’re-here-for-you-during-your-breakup ritual.  

 “What can I get you ladies?” the waitress asked once we were situated. I ordered a double vanilla vodka and diet coke; Gina, a white Russian with two cherries; Sasha, a margarita on the rocks no salt; and for Lydia, a Miller Light. Once beverages were in our possession, we raised them for a ceremonious toast.

 “Well, here’s to the dissolution of my relationship with Joey,” I proposed.

“Cheers,” the girls said simultaneously. We clinked glasses and took our first sips of the evening.

 “Thanks for being here for me, girls,” I said.

“Hey, I’m just here for the free drinks. You’re buying tonight, right?” Sasha joked as she took another swig of margarita. “That's the rule: you get dumped, you buy.”

 Gina took a cherry out of her white Russian, biting it at the stem, just as an uninvited bar dweller approached our table. He, much to our horror, was sporting a sleeveless plaid flannel and a ten-pounder belt buckle. He brazenly advanced toward us, ready for battle, equipped with a Budweiser (or “Butt-wiper” as my brother used to say) in one hand, a pool stick in the other. I’d seen him in here before playing pool with his big-bellied buddies; they gawked at us, scared to say anything to our faces. We joked about them, referencing the only balls they had were of the billiards persuasion. Unfortunately for us on this particular evening, the liquid courage must have been flowing stronger than usual.  

 “Hey, you ladies should be called the Alphabet Chicks.”

“Excuse me? What does that mean?” I asked with a furrowed brow.

“Well,” he set his beer on the table, “you’ve got A cups,” he said, pointing to Lydia, “you’ve got B’s,” he directed at me, “you’re the C,” he motioned toward Sasha. “And you’ve got the delicious D cups, darling,” he points to Gina's chest.

 We stared at him blankly for a full thirty seconds, none of us knowing what to do. It was Gina who took action. Standing up slowly, she got extremely close to his face and glared him down (which was easy to do considering she was a couple inches taller). Then she took his beer from the table and dumped it over his balding head. Luckily for us, his beer was at least three quarters full.

“Next time you interrupt me and my ladies with your lewd and inappropriate comments, you can bet your ass I’ll be breaking a bottle over your head.”

“Baby,” he replied, wiping the foamy beer from his face, “it would be totally worth it.”

“Get out of my way, asshole.” Gina shoved him in the chest and marched straight over to the bartender. While pointing to Mr. Lewd, she must have told the bartender what happened because he bellowed for the bouncer. And you do not want to mess with a Mean-Eyed Cat bouncer. Ever. Needless to say, the redneck brigade got kicked out.

 “Sorry about that, ladies,” the bartender said after he accompanied Gina back to our table. “How ‘bout a round of drinks on me for your pain and suffering.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” I told him.

“Coming up. Would you care for some nachos on the house as well? I can grab some from next door at El Arroyo.”

“I knew this was my favorite bar for a reason,” Sasha said. “Could you bring some extra jalapenos and a side of sour cream? Oh, and go light on the beans, too.”

“Sasha!” Lydia cried. “He’s offering them free, for crying out loud. Don’t be so picky, that’s rude!”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it,” the bartender assured. Sasha smiled smugly at Lydia.

As the bartender walked away, a veil of silence settled among us. I remember suddenly being very aware of my breasts. I was sure the other girls were, too. I didn't know whether to laugh, or be pissed that I hadn't noticed our A-though-D analogy before. Instead, I kept my mouth occupied with my drink. Being rendered speechless was not something any of us were comfortable with, nor familiar. Eventually, though, I broke the silence: “Alphabet Chicks, huh? I think I like it. Totally offensive, but an accurate observation at least.”

After that, it was obvious why Lydia came into our lives. She was the pièce de résistance we needed in our group. In fact, if it weren't for adding Lydia, we would have never truly been able to define our union. Because just like Lydia's bra size, some things just naturally come first – like family.

Chosen or not.