Free A Woman Trapped in a Woman's Body by Lauren Weedman Page A

H&R Block.
    When I got home I sent P. Diddy Taxman an email:
    I was just kidding with the story about being pushed out of a moving car by that stand-up comic in Chicago. Bye, Lauren.
    Here in Jay’s kitchen all I want is a mug to pour my coffee in, but Jay keeps blocking my way.
    â€œSo, who were you last night? Were you the sad, grungy, ex-Seattleite divorcée, or the heaving-cleavage Southern California divorcée?” Jay wants to know.
    â€œI was Terre Haute, Indiana, through and through. Are the mugs in the dishwasher?” I ask.
    He ignores my question and continues, his voice notching up a bit. “So, how long did it take before you told him you used to be on The Daily Show ? I think you should make it a personal challenge to see how long you can go without telling people that. I think that would be really interesting, don’t you?”
    I am not going to bite. I want some coffee. I’m still trying to rinse the bumpy tongue taste out of my mouth from a few nights ago.

    Jay has positioned his body right in front of the dishwasher. He wants my daily confessional and until I drop to my knees and admit my sins, I can’t get a mug.
    â€œCould you move? I need to get a mug,” I say.
    Jay’s eyebrows are starting to quiver and one of his legs starts to bounce uncontrollably, thumping against the dishwasher. He’s like a junkie and I’ve got his junk—he’s getting desperate. He changes tactics.
    â€œWhat are you doing tonight? Do you wanna come with us to—”
    â€œI have a date tonight with a guy who used to work at the Playboy mansion,” I tell him. I’m thinking he’ll love that I’m living this sad Internet life. It will make him feel superior, which I think he prefers to me chipping in for the gas bill.
    But instead of looking satisfied, he yells, “What are you doing?” and causes all the dogs to start spinning in excited circles and the lovebird to fly off his head back to its cage.
    â€œDating! I’m dating!” I defend myself.
    He reminds me that I’ve been divorced for a half a second and should try to be alone for a little while.
    Taking his advice, I’m alone from 10 a.m. that morning to around 5 p.m. that evening. And he’s right, it feels much better. I’m back to my old self just in time for Rick to pick me up.
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    At the bar, Rick drinks his fifteen-dollar glass of wine in a single gulp, sets the glass down on the bar, and says,
“Whoa, I was thirsty.” He re-feathers his hair with his fingers and flicks his bangs back using only his neck muscles. He does it one more time—the feathering fingers, the neck flip. Then he asks me about me.
    One thing I immediately like about Rick is that he’s got a good sense of humor about the career he had in the ’80s—working in the softcore porn industry.
    He tells me about a movie he did for the Playboy channel in which he played a judge for a beauty contest. He never had any sex scenes—he mostly just stood in a tuxedo surrounded by topless women and said things like, “Ladies! Ladies! Why, you’re all beautiful!”
    Rick is the most overly buff straight man I’ve ever seen. He himself comments that many girls think he’s gay because “he has zero percent body fat, tucks his shirts in, and has good hair.” He works out daily and looks like an action hero, all of which, in my post-divorce haze, is not particularly unattractive.
    On my second date with Rick we attend his ex-girlfriend’s birthday party. He prefaces the party by explaining, “We call her ‘Daisy Von Crazy’ and I think you’ll see why!”
    As we walk toward the bar I notice a group of women wearing jeans so low their tampon strings could get caught in their belts.
    â€œIsn’t it amazing and ironic and sad how comfortable everyone has become being physically naked,” I say, “but
it’s getting