Target Underwear and a Vera Wang Gown (24 page)

I slept the first day, ate everything in my parents’ house on the second day, and had calmed down enough the third day to get ready to go out with my family for a nice dinner.

I was sitting with my mother in her room, gabbing with her as she started to get dressed. She had her hair in curlers, no makeup on yet; she was wearing a mundane nude-colored bra and the only non-classic piece of clothing she owns—an old pink tattered chenille robe that I think she’s been wearing since I was ten. She was sitting on the edge of her bed as we spoke, leaning over as she crouched down to put her feet into some panty hose. From my point of observation, I noticed a slight middle-age spread. In other words, this was not her best look. Just then, my dad walked into the room. He looked at her and then he looked at me and then he smiled this admiring grin. “You know something?” He beamed. “Your mother is the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Now, I’m not one of those people who thinks that their parents are the most romantic couple there ever was. This couple could have been anyone; it just happened to have been my parents. Married for forty-five years, they have a beautiful relationship, and as much as I admire them for it, I don’t want to base my own life on it. I want my own love story and not a carbon copy of someone else’s. It goes back to the lesson I learned when I tried to be Madonna in high school: Never try to perpetrate the whole look; just go for the little nuances. As my father leaned over to give my mother a kiss and she shooed him away, laughing playfully then finally allowing him to give her a peck on the cheek, I knew that I had made the right decision.

Deep down in my heart, I knew that Pete wasn’t the one thing I knew for certain. There was always the possibility of a beautiful boy who could see through everything. It did matter to Pete how I looked and what I wore. He loved parts of me; there was no doubt about that. He wanted a creation of his own, though, and it was way too late. I already had my story.

As I head into my late thirties, I am a single woman, but that doesn’t begin to define who I am. I will love again. Someone will love me again. I will wear six-inch heels until I don’t want to wear them anymore. (But I’m correcting myself even as I write this. They’re going to have to bury me with those shoes on.) I will continue to buy Gilligan & O‘Malley underwear from Target until they change the formula and I am forced to look elsewhere. I will also wear Cosabella and Hanro and La Perla underwear and push-up bras and maybe even some padded underwear if I feel my butt looks too flat. I’ll make those decisions when the mood strikes. I will ask a friend’s opinion about a blouse, pants, or skirt and add it into my final analysis instead of allowing it be the set answer. I will wear everything from the Gap to Galliano, and it will never be about price, it will always be about how it makes me feel. I might still lie about my prom dress. That’s my prerogative.

Maybe the key to it all lies in something my buddy Oprah once said: “Life is bigger than just buying shoes ... but shoes are very important.” Maybe it’s written in one of my friend Madonna’s songs: “Express yourself so you can respect yourself.” Maybe though, it’s even more than that.

Tucked inside the fibers and buttons and pockets is the story of our lives, the lessons we learn, the people we love. For me, it’s my awkwardness clumsily stitched into a pair of split Dolphin shorts, a prom dress, some oversize boxer shorts, a pair of deep blue Pumas with a yellow swoosh. An eighteen-year-old girl’s feelings for her first love linger inside an old 8-ball jacket sitting in the back of a grown man’s closet. My feminine sexpot fumes through some halter tops and cigarette pants, wherever they may be. The insecurities of a thirty-year-old woman are concealed inside some old Hugo Boss suits, just wishing they could break free. The enduring influence of a coral knit skirt and top followed by a long row of classic eternally size-six women’s suits and jackets are in a closet in Philadelphia, reminding me of the exuberance for life, dignity, and self-respect those two women have taught me by example. My confidence and grace is first in my self-knowledge and second in my clothing—the haute designers who make me feel dazzling, the cheap Lycra flower dresses that bonded me to the dearest friends I would ever know. My faith is in my future. It shines through a white Vera Wang gown matched with a lace veil that I have yet to see firsthand, but know by heart.

That’s my love story ... so far.

 

To Erin Moore, editor extraordinaire, the magnificent EM, Goddess of the Edit for whom I am most grateful. Thank you for your passionate support, expert opinions, and, most of all, our marathon heart-to-heart tête-à-têtes. It has been the luckiest coup to have you as my editor.

To Gotham publisher Bill Shinker for this incredible opportunity. This experience has been the time of my life (figuratively and literally) and my gratitude is beyond measure.

To my brilliant agent, Brian DeFiore, who got the joke. B, my respect for you is enormous, my debt to you is bigger than any Barneys bill I could ever receive.

To Eric Brooks, one of my dearest friends who, thank God, also happens to be the best entertainment attorney in Hollywood. You have gone above and beyond and I thank you for always looking out for me.

To Leslie Jane Seymour, editor in chief of
Marie Claire
magazine, for whom I am beyond grateful. With my deepest respect and gratitude, thank you for believing in my work.

To all my buddies at
Marie Claire
including Patti Adcroft, Fan Winston, and Nicole Brown.

A huge thank-you to all the faithful readers of Marie Claire magazine.

And without a doubt to my fairy god-sister, Susan Swimmer, for whom I could go on and on and on. If it wasn’t for your kindness, determination, and keen eye, this book would still be on my computer. You are the truest friend and a sister in my heart.

To my scribe allies and gym rat cohorts Timothy Gray, Steve Chagollan, and Ted Johnson from
Daily Variety
for the many years of props.

For the valuable advice, help, and welfare, thank you Kate Garrick, Jessica Sindler, Lloyd Bucher, Julian Hooper, Leslie Meyers, Michael Minden, Jake Tapper, Liz Ziemska, Elana Barry; thank you to Helena, the newly appointed seventh, for allowing me to be an honorary WBTV office member; big thanks to Richie Schwartz.

To Ian Kerner, my brother from another mother and advice guru, for his treasure trove of support.

To those who allowed me to spill the Dior, my touchstones: I-My, Heides, Ree, Fels, Ray, and Suz, and to the Granola Man and all the paramours mentioned who remain in my heart with cherished affection.

To my brood: cousin Michele, sister-in-law Samantha, brother Michael, bonus mother Elaine, and to my brother David who puts the hysterical in Halpern.

And finally, to those who have inspired, adorned, and are simply adored: Madonna, Oprah Winfrey, Donna Karan and Vera Wang, Barneys New York, Bloomingdale‘s, Saks Fifth Avenue, Macy’s, Lord & Taylor, Diavolina and XTC Shoes for six-inch heels, the genius designers of Target’s Gillian & O‘Malley underwear, and in loving memory of Bonwit Teller, Strawbridge & Clothier, John Wanamaker’s, and the Birdcage restaurant.